


In Memories and Mercy

by bloodsongs



Category: Merlin (TV)
Genre: Assassin!Merlin, Community: paperlegends, Historical AU, M/M, Paperlegends 2013, Reincarnation, magic!Arthur
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-08-20
Updated: 2013-08-20
Packaged: 2017-12-24 03:56:44
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 3
Words: 63,624
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/935028
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/bloodsongs/pseuds/bloodsongs
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Historical Albion AU. Born a powerful sorcerer to an age even more unforgiving of magic than ever before, Arthur was the leader of the Resistance — a group of renegades that banded together to fight the oppression and murders of magic users orchestrated by the Guild, a formidable and mysterious collective ruling over Albion in a time of apparent peace for all except for those with magic. When his companions are killed and Arthur desperately flees for his life, the Guild sends for their best hunter to subdue him: the destructive but retired Merlin.</p><p>While initially reluctant to pursue Arthur after having cut all ties with the Guild, the threat to his own life moves Merlin to play a game of deceit as he joins Arthur on his fugitive's journey to fight back against the very people he serves and to save his captured sister, Morgana. The inevitable betrayal happens, but as memories of a past life they didn't know they had over the centuries begin to return to the both of them, Merlin and Arthur are forced to work together to escape and confront a great evil from their shared history together in Camelot.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> A huge thank you to everyone who's been so supportive of my writing — shout-outs especially to [Deminos](http://deminos001.livejournal.com), [Jadesfire](http://jadesfire.livejournal.com), [K_Nightfox](http://k_nightfox.livejournal.com), [RocknVaughn](http://rocknvaughn.livejournal.com) and [ZairaAlbereo](http://zairaalbereo.livejournal.com)! I'll write a more comprehensive A/N tomorrow as it's 5AM as I'm posting this and I'm completely tuckered out, but know that you're very much loved and appreciated for everything.
> 
> Also, bless you, S and K for the beta work. All other remaining mistakes are mine.
> 
> All the wonderful art by frances_veritas can be found embedded in this story and on her [masterpost here](http://frances-veritas.livejournal.com/440665.html).

"Get him!"

Arthur turns a corner so sharply it nearly throws him off balance, an arrow whistling past him as his frightened sister Morgana cries out his name not three steps behind. 

"I'm fine," he says, panic burning in his throat, and he doesn’t look back, just keeps running. Their footfalls are loud and irregular, his and Morgana’s and the precious few sorcerers left of their village, slapping against the wet cobbles. 

The shouting gets closer, and then they’re calling his name: “Surrender, Pendragon!”

“Keep going,” Arthur roars, when he hears his people stumbling behind him. He yanks Mordred to his feet, then continues on, past the endless buildings and the flickering lamps. He can smell the sea breeze, salty and sharp. They’re so close. “Don’t stop, don’t _stop!_ ”

“They’re catching up,” Morgana cries, and someone groans in pain before falling with a thump. “We won’t make it.”

“We will.” They don’t have a choice. If they don’t make it to the port in time, they would all... they simply have to.

It’s then that they see it: the port, with the ocean stretching out before them, endless blackness against the weak sunlight just beginning to creep over the horizon. The night sky bleeds slowly into a red canvas, seabirds flapping away, and Arthur spots their ship.

“Passage to Bijou.” Arthur shoves his papers at the disinterested man at the entrance of the _Marguerite_. “And the others behind me, too, quick—”

“Arthur!”

He turns, and there’s Morgana, long dark hair wild about her as she struggles against two assailants in Guild armour, the sigil bright and unforgiving, gloved hands locked over her mouth preventing her from casting. So, more men from the Guild had been lying in wait for them all along. 

“No!” Arthur feels the anger seize him, white-hot behind his eyes. They would _not_ have his sister. He utters a spell as he runs towards her, taking special care to not hit them directly lest they have protective amulets or similar on them. The pavement explodes abruptly next to the men, chips flying at their faces, and they let go of Morgana briefly to shield themselves. 

At least the spell worked this time. Arthur’s magic has always been wild and uncontrollable, despite the sheer force and magnitude behind it.

He pulls Morgana to his feet and now, now he stops to look behind them both, heart beating so fast it’s a miracle he’s breathing at all. “Where’s everyone?” It’s quiet but for the men he just knocked down. “Morgana, where are the others?”

She shakes her head, turning to him, hurt in her eyes. “They caught up to some of them before we could... they took them, and we had to keep running. I didn’t want to leave them, Arthur, it was—” 

“We tried,” he says fiercely then, gripping her by her arms. “We didn’t give them up, we fought. I swear, we will save them. But for now, we simply have to run, we’re outnumbered. Come now, Morgana, take your papers. The ship’s leaving soon — it's dawn.”

Morgana’s fingers shake as she takes out her papers and hands them to the steward. “Another for the Marguerite to Bijou. Oh, Arthur — Mordred, the poor boy, what will become of him and the others? I won’t forgive them, the beasts,” she spits, and despite the harrowing time they’d just had of their escape, Arthur can see the fire in her flare again at her words. “I’ll hunt them down myself, cut them from rib to neck with the bluntest knife I can find, burn them the way they burn others like us. I'll have their eyes open and screaming. They’ll apologise and beg and cry for mercy, but they will have all the mercy they’ve ever showed us: none.”

It’s a vivid, brutal image, but Arthur agrees, silently. Every word.

“We will come back for them.” Arthur gets on the plank, squinting up at the big ship and seeing all the other people on it. “We’ll come back for them, reform the Resistance, make it even stronger than ever before to fight back.” Are there other runaway magic users aboard, too, he wonders? Arthur clenches his fists, remembering how the Guild ambushed them in the village, sneaking past the traps so that no one saw or heard them coming until it was too late. Probably disabled their protection spells with the strange dark magic they wielded to subdue others like Arthur and Morgana, he thinks bitterly. They would hunt those with magic, kill them like animals, but use it for their own malicious ends.

And for some reason, they wanted Arthur alive.

The scream ringing out through the busy chatter in the port around them draws his attention, and then Morgana’s let go of his hand as a thin, sneering man snaps chains around her and pulls her to him, locking her arms in place. She gasps when they tighten around her, seeming to glow, and she sags from the force of it as though drained. “Release me, you brute,” Morgana grits out, before the man strikes her across the cheek.

Arthur’s blood runs cold, because the man in the elite Guild livery looks nothing like the common Guild soldiers he’s been killing all these months. The robes he’s got on are practical — short, clipped and with only the faintest hint of gold trimmings. They’re not what makes Arthur uneasy; the sickening ripple of wickedness from his thick bejeweled collar does. 

“Let her go.” He tries for calm, calculating. His steps feel wooden as he walks towards where the man has Morgana, but he’s pacing restlessly inside, a wolf who wants nothing more than to rip the man apart in front of him for threatening his sister.

“No, Pendragon. Stop where you are, and do not move.” Arthur stops immediately. He doesn’t have a good feeling about this man, not at all; his voice is too cruelly smooth. Oily, even. “I am Sir Cedric. If you come with us, I might let her live. If you don’t, she dies.”

“Don’t listen to him.” Morgana pushes her shoulder forward, the effect of her magic being siphoned off showing on her face as her eyes droop. She tries pulling at the chains to no avail, but they’re tight around her, rusted metal biting cruelly into the paleness of her skin. “Arthur, save yourself. They won’t kill me, they’ll need me as a chess piece to bargain for you.”

“Silence, witch,” Cedric barks, and Morgana does fall silent, but not without lifting her chin defiantly to look at him, red staining her cheek already from where he’d struck her. “The Guild has extended its invitation countless times, Pendragon, despite your crimes. And yet, you continue to deny us, spurn us. This will not stand.”

“Your _invitation_ ,” Arthur begins, gritting his teeth, “consisted of your men coming to my homes, the villages I’ve stayed, and slaying everyone on sight so you can take me alive. I hardly think murdering people associated with me is going to endear me to your cause. Why would I trust a collective of men whose only visible objective is to eliminate every magic user in this kingdom and beyond?”

“You brought all those _sorcerers_ together to form your little group of rebels, didn’t you? You should have known better. Did you really think we wouldn’t have heard of it? That word wouldn’t have traveled back to us, and that we wouldn’t shut you down?” Pursing his lips in a thin line, Cedric turns a look of mocking contempt upon Arthur. 

“You speak out of turn, miscreant. Filth is hidden in you, behind your pride and your righteousness, filth that is the taint in your blood. That you would consider yourself a person astounds me. You will speak of the Guild and its Elders with respect!”

Arthur feels the fury coil like a physical snake down his arm, heat pooling at the tips of his fingers. The temptation to burn Cedric where he stands is great, but he cannot risk having his magic turned back against him when his temper’s wild and loose, not when he doesn’t know what that infernal artifact around Cedric’s neck can do.

“It’s clear that you will not come with us of your own free will,” Cedric continues, making a dismissive waving gesture that brings his men forward, clad in the dark spartan scarlet of the lowest-ranking soldiers of the guild. His eyes are dark gimlets when he finally settles his gaze on Arthur again, and points towards him. “Men! Apprehend our fugitive. This is the last insult we will suffer, Pendragon, and you will pay dearly for your insolence.”

Two men approach him, stepping to his sides; to outflank him, presumably. He steps back, takes a quick glance to see how far the ship’s plank is from his position before adjusting his steps discreetly. The soldiers move a little clumsily, to Arthur’s trained eye; he might’ve been born with magic, but he’s always been good at fighting, and has honed that skill accordingly. He maps out the skirmish that will inevitably ensue in his mind, thinking about how to disarm them, and waits for them to attack him.

“The Marguerite will be departing shortly,” the same disinterested man from earlier cries out, seemingly unaffected by the chaos unfolding in front of him. “Last call for passengers, messeres!”

That’s when he catches a small flurry of movement out of the corner of his eye. Arthur pauses, looking at Morgana, who shakes her head at him, closes her eyes and mouths, _run_. His heart breaks a little, but he’s the one with the power, the one with the most magic compared to anyone they’ve ever known; if there’s anyone who can and should rally others to defend the other magic users against the Guild in the kingdom, Morgana and the others have long decided that it should be Arthur.

He won't disappoint them.

Summoning all the strength she has left, Morgana brings her foot down upon Cedric’s, digging her heel into the soft edge of his boot where his toes are. He yelps, and yanks her forward by the chain so she falls to her knees. “You bitch!”

The brief window of distraction is all Arthur needs. The amateur soldiers lose their focus for all but half of a second, making the mistake of turning towards the source of the noise and commotion, and Arthur lashes out at them. He shoves an unforgiving elbow to the clothed face of one recruit, knocking him down, before he grabs the other by the front of his tunic and throws him in a powerful swing. The unfortunate man crashes into a stack of barrels that burst upon contact, and then there’s the heady smell of rum in the air.

“Run!” Morgana shouts. “I can’t get these off me, they’ll drain your magic too. Just run, Arthur, I believe in you. We’ll survive, we’ll be all right!”

“I will,” he vows, and finds hot tears stinging the edge of his eyes at Morgana, brave Morgana, helpless in the grasp of a callous, spiteful man, and at his own powerlessness to stop it. “I’ll save you, I will, I’ll come back for the others.”

She nods, slumping and accepting her temporary fate. 

“Wait,” Arthur cries out before they can throw the plank up to the ship down. “I’m coming up.”

“We ain’t got all day, boy,” one of the men on deck holler, but they keep it anyway until he’s safely boarded, throwing it down just as Cedric runs up to the ship, shouting at them to stop even as they let the sails down, grand expanses of white billowing in the wind as the seamen tie them into place.

Arthur looks back at Morgana, at the port, at the cut of land he’d once called his home; his beloved mountains visible from here, where the ocean is.

He makes a promise, to himself: he’ll return to save Morgana, Mordred, the rest — they don’t always slay the powerful magic users they find, and Arthur is banking on that to buy him time until he can find some help to storm the Guild’s Keep.

Arthur’s heart clenches, and he feels the sadness and fatigue crash down upon him suddenly, from all the running and fear he’s been feeling as they fled town after town to come here. It isn’t fair that they have to go through this, simply for being born with their strange abilities to manipulate the elements, people, creatures. It might not necessarily be a blessing, but it’s not a curse. Sorcerers and sorceresses, he believes, are as human as anybody else, and shouldn’t be condemned for it.

Well, Arthur’s not going to let the Guild keep them down. He’ll return, exact his revenge, and try to help others like him, nurture their gifts. 

For now, he says a quiet goodbye, and turns his face to the sea.

* * *

“Stop, in the name of the Guild!” Cedric roars, all dark robes and gilt and outrage. “I command you!”

The bored steward from before snorts, smoking his pipe. “Guild or not, some of us have got to keep to a schedule, y’know. Even kings or emperors can’t stop us ships when they need to leave. All you high-and-mightys thinkin’ you can get away with anything if you’ve got money, got stature. It ain’t right. You want to stop a ship, why don’t you command lightning from the sky, ‘stead?”

“You peasant,” Cedric fumes, but makes a sharp about-turn to address his groaning men. “We’re about done here. I don’t know how we’re going to tell her Ladyship that Pendragon has escaped again. Let’s head back.”

Morgana laughs, quietly, even as he takes her chains again and pulls her to her feet so jarringly she nearly catches her feet on the edge of stones. “He’s quite possibly the most powerful sorcerer who ever lived,” she says, spitting at Cedric’s feet, and doesn’t so much as flinch when he hits her again. “That’s why you want him, don’t you? You _need_ Arthur.”

Cedric sneers at her again, lips twisting into an ugly curve, waving at several men on horseback leading horses behind them towards his way. “Shows how much you know. He may be powerful, but the Guild has its ways. Its reasons. We hesitated before now, but we’ll not hold back anymore.”

He gets on a horse, but leaves Morgana on the ground, hands wrapped twice over in the binding magic-sucking chains. “You will walk,” Cedric says, somehow satisfied. “You try anything funny and I’ll make you feel pain you’ve never imagined you could feel, and do that to your foolish, defiant brother when we finally have him.”

“You never will,” she snarks back, sharp, trodding slowly behind his horse. 

Cedric just laughs instead of reprimanding her, before he looks back at her with a contemptuous smile. “Oh, we will. I imagine’ll be calling on _him_.” He nudges his horse into a trot, and Morgana bites her lip as she has to increase her walking. The way he said _him_ didn’t sound like he was referring to Arthur. “The Elders gave us their approval and blessing to seek him out for the express purpose of constraining Pendragon; he’s our trump card. A wild and unpredictable one, but a trump card nevertheless. He’ll take out Pendragon, all right — he’s not called the best mage Hunter out there for nothing.”

* * *

 

“You want me to do what?”

“Pendragon is a threat, Merlin,” Cedric says coolly, tucking his hands behind his back. “The Guild would appreciate your assistance in... subduing him.”

Merlin steps back from where he was looking out of his window at the lush trees outside his home, shades of beautiful spring colours, whirling so he’s looking at Cedric in front of his desk. He doesn’t trust Cedric; never has. Honestly, he’s usually coolly polite and even pleasant to some of his old acquaintances from the Guild who call on him and come by to say hello despite everything that’s happened, but Cedric is a notable exception.

“There’s no reason for you to come to me just for that.” Merlin runs a hand through his messy black hair, wonders how heavy the shadows under his eyes must look today when offset by the gray tones of the tunics he’s taken to wearing at home. “The Guild is a powerful, enormous collective. You have countless resources, many other Hunters you could contact for the job. I’ve retired. I don’t even have my pin anymore.”

Cedric says nothing, but tosses something onto his desk with a clatter. Merlin doesn’t even need to look to know it’s another Guild pin. Not Merlin’s, of course not. He had his own melted into the fire after that fateful day. This would be shinier, newer, and without the vicious bloodstains on; memories of the bloodshed and screams that he’d come to associate with the guild.

No more.

“They require your expertise.” Cold eyes narrow at Merlin, and Merlin just stares back, matching him stare for stare. “Would you deny the Guild this?”

Merlin doesn’t so much as move towards the pin. “Is this a summons, of sorts?”

Cedric ignores him. “The Elders set aside the matter of your... accident all those years ago. They were kind enough to let you live, because they recognised you as an asset that they would benefit from engaging in a situation like this. Your skills and talents saved your hide, and you know it. Refuse to help, and your life is forfeit.”

The dagger against his hip almost seems to burn like a brand through his clothes to his skin. Merlin itches to draw it and cut the smug, oily bastard in front of him where he stands. “It’s hardly becoming of an Overseer to threaten someone for his own ends.”

“That’s not a yes.”

Merlin plays with the amulet around his neck, fingering the bumps and ridges along the familiar silver chain for reassurance. “Tell me more about this Pendragon, and why he’s got the current best and brightest of the Guild panicking and running about like headless chickens.”

“Her Ladyship foresaw the power of Arthur Pendragon, leader of the resistance.” Cedric places a rough illustration on parchment on Merlin’s smooth mahogany desk, pushing it towards Merlin. “As you know, while the Lady does not dabble in the dark ways of magic, she has visions that she uses for the benefit of the Guild. She told us of Pendragon’s power, and that hunting him was key to further the progress of the Guild and to prevent him from doing anything with more powerful magic users to oppose us. Many others from the guild had the misfortune of experiencing Pendragon’s wrath firsthand.”

“I don’t suppose they were there to tell you about the experience in person,” Merlin comments dryly, picking up the illustration and examining it. He doesn’t quite trust artists to capture the likenesses of the people they depict in ink accurately, but he’ll take it with a pinch of salt. The lines take the form of an angular jaw, with a mouth set in a grim, worried line and bright, piercing eyes. They look haunted, insofar an image on paper can look haunted. From the lack of shading, Merlin assumes the subject is fair-haired.

“No.” The reply is curt, and Merlin resists the urge to continue looking at different angles to prod and poke at Cedric’s wounded Guild-prioritising pride. “Pendragon is an immensely powerful warlock, and has downed many of our forces. Having experienced your volatility, the Elders held many lengthy discussions before they dispatched me here.”

Merlin sets the parchment aside. “How powerful are we looking at?”

“Very, apparently.” Cedric frowns, as if disbelieving his own words. 

“That’s not very convincing.”

“I only had a brief clash with him when he escaped my infantry’s pursuit a few days ago. Didn’t get to really see the extent of his power, if at all.” Cedric waves, and he somehow manages to make it look condescending. Merlin finds himself a little more irritated by him by the minute, and turns his eyes to the intricate patterns lining his walls and the much more soothing sight of his books’ spines instead. “But numbers don’t lie, Merlin. Even if he worked with his others to take out our soldiers, he did incapacitate or kill over fifty men over just a few months.”

“Hmm,” Merlin says, non-committally. 

"It's not usually in us to seek out someone so... fervently," Cedric says. "But while we've been hacking away at what little numbers they have, word has been spreading of Pendragon and his crusade against the Guild. People are talking. We don't like it when people are talking."

"So? You just kill them when they do. I fail to see the problem here."

"Silence, Emrys."

"I don't go by that code name anymore."

"The point is," Cedric ploughs on, "Pendragon is dangerous. He gives people ideas. We can't risk that with the magic users, although we won't have to worry that much with everybody else — it's not like the common people will arise as one to fight us to protect the magic users. Why should they care what happens to other people, as long as they get what they need? They will also never dare to revolt against us, because they're afraid."

"Ruling with fear only works for so long," Merlin warns quietly. 

Cedric snorts, walking to the middle of the room and spreading his hands. He turns in a circle, looking up at the little oval stained glass window at the top of Merlin's study. "Fear! Nonsense. Ruling with fear is what makes the Guild's governance so effective. Make no mistake, Emrys —" Merlin rolls his eyes, but doesn't bother correcting Cedric, " — people are selfish creatures. The land is by no means prosperous, but as long as they're fed and know who it is extending the food that warms their bellies at night, they won't bite us. And besides, we're only doing away with magic users, the unnatural things that hide among the common people like vermin."

"Are they animals, that you would talk of them thus?" Merlin makes sure he adds that little curl of distaste at the end of the name.

"When it comes down to survival, that's what we're reduced to. The ruthless and the strongest will triumph."

Merlin sits down and rests his chin upon the back of his hand. Talking to Cedric is becoming unbearable. “So you told me you have his sister.”

“A hostage and bait to lure him in. It is likely he will return to save her now that she is in our hands. Meanwhile, she can be, how do you say — she can be of use.”

Merlin forces a smile, putting his hands together and linking his fingers tightly. He doesn’t miss the way Cedric watches them carefully even as Merlin says, smoothly, “I’m sure.”

“She will be a valuable resource,” Cedric says offhandedly. “Pendragon has been able to overcome some of our basic anti-magic defenses, the charms that the Lady has provided us with. We need more power, and more potent artifacts to deal with his like.”

Resisting the urge to snarl, Merlin leans back. “You speak of him like a beast to be chained.”

It’s like the room cools to ice, tension trickling through every inch of it. “There was a time when you shared our sentiments, Hunter.” Cedric’s voice is stiff. “The Guild’s decision is final. Help us, or we will take measures we’d rather not have to.”

Merlin shakes his head and tucks his amulet back behind his starched collar with trembling fingers. The anger is boiling beneath his skin, along with the nausea that rears whenever he thinks about killing magic users again. “And do I not get additional protection for this? Would you send novices out to assassinate such a formidable warlock without appropriate defenses and armour?”

“Subdue, not assassinate.”

“I was under the impression—”

“No. However, he cannot be allowed to run free.” A pause. “We will try to convince him to join the Guild and support us, although that too is risky. Should that prove unsuccessful, the Elders have plans for him.”

“I’m sure.” Merlin’s voice could have cut teak. “So, what of anti-magic provisions from the Guild? I can’t create my own, and you know it. The old equipment I have is just that: dated, and they don’t function as well anymore.”

“His magical senses are acute,” is Cedric’s reply. “Sensitive and heightened, he can track the magic imbued in our protective charms and weapons from a certain distance, and we suspect that’s how he’s been relatively prepared to face us each time. Adapt and adjust accordingly; it might be best to not even have anything on lest he detects a trace of magic.”

“And theoretically, magical signatures will be applied to the entire aura of a person, or something along those lines.” Merlin sighs. “So if he detects just a trace and it doesn’t gel with the overall impression he gets of me as a person, and discovers I am non-magical, that will not work in my favour.” He's always suspected his amulet is a little bit magical, but it's never triggered any alarms near Guild artifacts, even after he left.

“Absolutely. Merlin Ambrosius: we know you’re the best, and while you have done the Guild grievous wrong in the past, we will overlook it should you take care of this for us.”

Merlin glares. Cedric stays impassive.

“I’ll send a bird,” Merlin says finally, shifting the inkwell on his table and getting out a fresh quill. “When it’s done. So you may come to collect him.”

“Very good. And if you should fail?”

The idea of it. Merlin smiles a dark little smile, showing just a hint of teeth. 

“I’m named after a falcon; I always capture my prey.”

* * *

The town Arthur finds himself in after walking away from Bijou, with some strange name like Sunshine-by-the-Sea or something as equally quaint and gratuitous, is small and busy. Four days of staring at the sky and walking in the humid weather that he’ll never get back, but he knows he has to press on, despite the exhaustion in his tired bones and the way he can’t really keep his eyes open anymore.

Arthur’s never really left or sailed away from the mountains and the few spots of civilisation around it nearing the harbour off his side of the land, but there’re a lot more people here than he’s ever seen in one place. It’s a little overwhelming, if he stops to think about it.

Sighing, Arthur smooths out an old map of the country, and squints at where he’s at supposed to go next. “Gaer,” he reads, looking at the thick block letters. A big city, just as he and Morgana had planned.That should be a good place to start looking for help and to ask around about any resistance against the Guild, and if he could ask them to join his cause. 

The Guild would no doubt have their own postings and people stationed there, but it would be easier to lose them if they discovered Arthur within the walls of such a massive city than it would have been in the past. That sounded promising, and if things really went pear-shaped, Arthur could flee via several routes out of the city. They wouldn’t know where to start looking for him.

Excellent.

He’s not felt this hopeful in a while. Arthur can’t help but overhear snatches of conversation wherever he is, all pertaining to the ongoing Hunt of magic-users and the control the Guild exerts over a sizeable part of the kingdom. He passes a number of people on the boat, of others in towns: women who titter over their baskets on their way to the market, a young couple walking close together, little children asking about it and not knowing any better.

“It’s nothing new, of course,” he hears someone say, at one point. “The practice of sorcery has been frowned upon for a long time.”

Another girl sounds quite passionate when she questions it. “They look just like us, though, them witches and warlocks. Magic or not, they’re born to families just like you and I were.”

“Shut up,” a man hisses, after. “If the Guild overhears you questioning them—”

“That power’s a dangerous thing,” another person argues. “Executing seems a bit heartless, just like all those hundreds of years ago in Albion. Do you remember Camelot? Dark times. But if you don’t keep that power in check and them mages go crazy, think of the destruction they could cause! To everyone!”

Arthur has actually participated in some of these debates, particularly under the concealment of poorly lit settings in taverns, drawing his hood over his blond hair as he comments quietly over a flagon of ale or two. He’s never been a person to stay away from conversations like that, or to avoid trouble. Morgana has always chided him for his temper and his inability to let sleeping dogs lie, but it's not like Arthur has started fights or anything.

Not intentionally, at least. Well, he’s certain he still didn’t attract _that_ much attention...

Morgana. Arthur misses headstrong, brave Morgana. He wonders if his sister is all right.

Nothing for it. He’ll just have to keep moving to stay ahead of the Guild. Provisions first, maybe a new satchel, and then Arthur will have to start walking to Gaer before the evening  draws near.

“How’re the woods like?” He finds himself asking a young girl who’s wrapping some fresh cheese for him, a fresh-faced and freckled thing who’d smiled prettily at him before trying to sell him everything on the table. Eventually, he settled for some blue cheese and some sweet, soft crumbly one because she insisted, and felt all the better for it because she was so earnest. “I’ll be journeying to Gaer before nightfall, and I’m not really from around here. Are there many beasts or bandits?”

“Not really,” she says, handing him his package and beaming when he flips a few coins at her, catching them in her small hands. “The guards are strict here, but we do get a few skulking layabouts every now and then wanting to make quick coin — taking advantage of unsuspecting merchants and all. Nothing we’re not used to, we can take care of ourselves! But if you’re going alone, you’d best be wary.”

He suddenly feels a little mischievous. “You don’t think I can handle them on my own?” Arthur leans in a little, smirking, and winks at her.

“Oh, I didn’t mean that!” She blushes, swatting at him. “No, I’m sure you’ll be fine.” Arthur doesn’t miss the way she gives him a quick once-over, from the tips of his fringe to the lines of his muscled arms and legs, her eyebrow raising slightly as if in approval. “Off with you, you rascal.”

“You like it, really!” He shouts back as he strides off, waving and thanking her for the cheese. Honestly, Arthur’s not really had the time for, well, _anyone_ since the Guild started redoubling their efforts in capturing and making an example of him; he misses making pretty girls smile at him before they move in to kiss him, misses crowding eager stable hands against wooden walls before pressing them down into piles of hay. He can’t trust anyone. What if the Guild had planted one of their own in a brothel he just happened to frequent? Perish the thought.

There’ll be time yet once all this is over. If it’s ever over.

He’s so bloody tired of running.

The sun’s still high in the sky, but Arthur can’t shake the uneasy feeling that settles over him as he approaches the edge of the woods and the sounds of the town grow ever fainter, the roads drawing out into lonely paths. 

The trees here are a little different from back home, Arthur notes, stroking the bark of a tree and scraping lightly at the moss. Warmer climes and all. He’s used to a biting winter, when snow clings to branches and leaves long after the season’s supposed to have faded into obscurity. Here, it’s warm and sticky, with bugs everywhere. It’s a little disconcerting, the damp grass beneath his feet and unfamiliar flowers around him.

The girl hadn’t been too far off in her describing how quiet it was, even this far into the woods. Arthur’s stayed in some bad towns without much protection, and had to team up with Morgana and the rest to fight some highwaymen who occasionally had the bright idea to rob their little entourage of runaways from time to time. Morgana could handle a sword just fine, thanks to their father, so she was certainly no helpless damsel. If she was ever disarmed, which was rare, her opponent would get a nasty surprise in the form of his clothes catching fire. Mordred wouldn’t toy with his enemies, simply skewer them through with the pointy end, sharp blue eyes never really blinking as much as they ought to. He meant well, sure, but hell if he didn’t creep Arthur out most of the time. Gilli was sneakier, and the twins were good at ganging up on others... it felt strange, traveling alone without them now.

He wonders how his uncle Agravaine will react once he meets him.

Squirrels scatter around him and the sunlight that filters through the leaves grow progressively weaker as he enters the heart of the forest, looking for the river that’ll guide him to Gaer. The trees are lusher, plants thicker, and he can’t move anywhere without stepping on crisp, crunchy leaves and creating little bubbles of sound that’d be a dead giveaway to anyone lying in wait for a solitary moron walking alone, seemingly unarmed. Ha, if they only knew.

Still, Arthur casts a silence spell anyway, raising his hand before sweeping them in a gesture across his body. He knows that if he were to look at the mirror at this very moment, his eyes would be glimmering gold as he called on his magic. Light shimmers briefly before him like a screen, and then he’s stepping forward gingerly on a pile of leaves. They don’t crunch anymore, and he nods to himself, satisfied and somehow relieved. He’s aware he’s powerful, but he’s never truly had much control over his abilities. It's hit and miss, because occasionally, his spells would backfire on him. His heightened emotional state over the last few months has helped with that, but when he was much younger, he would fuck up so spectacularly even Morgana would wonder how she’d ever thought he was skilled.

“You’re like a building that houses all your magic,” she’d once told him. “But it’s all raw power, and you’ve no means of controlling it. You have to get it under your control, Arthur. You’re supposed to harness your magic, not let it drive you.” 

Sometimes, Arthur felt like he and his magic were completely different entities that clashed, that didn’t quite belong together. But that was ridiculous, surely? He put it down to training, and had spent double the normal of hours he usually did trying to wrestle his magic into doing his bidding ever since Morgana approached him about it. 

Arthur’s tried force. Arthur’s tried meditation. Arthur’s tried everything. 

Now, he thinks there’s nothing else to do but wait for him to somehow come into his power. If he doesn’t, what would the point of having all that magic be if he cannot even use it? To perform the simplest of spells, to protect those he loves, to fight and bring about a better world where no one would no longer have to be executed or discriminated against for being born different?

In some ways, he really would be nothing without his magic.

No point being upset over it now, either. He eyes a decently tall, thick tree, and decides that one of the lowest branches would make a nice lookout point and place to rest for a while. Arthur climbs it in a matter of minutes, hauling himself up and rests against the trunk. The spaces between the leaves cast little spots of light and shadow that dance across his skin when he moves, and it’s a soothing image.

The cheese is good when he bites into it, fresh and sharp. Arthur’s pleased the girl hadn’t been kidding about how good her cheeses were. He only wishes he had some ale to wash it down, too, but he’ll find some water soon enough. 

He’s finishing off the last bit of his crusty bread when he hears it; a loud, indignant shout. Arthur sits up immediately, springing into a crouch and unsheathing one of his daggers as he tries to pinpoint the source of it. When he hears that same voice shouting again, he quickly clambers down, still cloaked in the silence shroud, and makes his way carefully towards a clearing he thinks the sounds originated from.

A quick glance through the gap between some trees shows him a young, skinny dark-haired boy in clothing of fine thread surrounded by four, five men circling him, pacing around him. Arthur keeps his back to one of the thick trees to hide in the shadows, shifting so he can peek and get a better idea of the situation.

For someone with clothes cut that finely, he should be in a coach, or at least on a horse. Maybe circumstances had prevented him from getting one. Arthur cannot stand bandits, personally, and the way they gang up and prey on smaller, defenseless groups of people who simply want to move safely from place to place. He looks barely older than Arthur himself. Another traveler like Arthur?

“Here, sirs. That’s my bag, that is!” The boy is saying, wide-eyed, expression pleading. “It’s got all my provisions in it, all of my money, I can’t travel anywhere without it!”

...so, definitely _not_ another traveler like Arthur. As though such cajoling would sway a bunch of bandits, especially when the scrawny idiot had all but revealed where his coin was kept! Despite himself, Arthur rolls his eyes. Does the boy have no common sense at all?

“All your coin, you say?” One of the thugs smirks wide, menacing with his ugly teeth. “Well, ain’t we quite the haul today, boys!”

Another one of the bandits laughs, a weird combination of wheezing noises and a bark like a dog’s. “Seriously, lad, you daft? Yer practically asking to be robbed in that getup, you are. A lamb trotting into a lion’s den.”

“Don’t you lot have anything better to do than clump together in numbers to steal from a skinny thing like me? Not much confidence picking on somebody your own size, eh?” The pleading expression is gone now, and the boy lifts his chin defiantly, haughty and cool. While Arthur agrees with him, he does wants to shake this stupid stranger at his inability to just fucking _stand down_ and let them get away with his money when he’s outnumbered like that. Sure, Arthur is waiting for the opportunity to strike and help this boy out, but he can’t help shaking his head and wondering if this boy just provokes people like this regularly for the sheer hell of it. He wouldn’t be surprised.

Predictably, the men tense at that, because they’re clearly not smart enough to know when they’re being goaded. “You little rat-face,” the stockiest of them sneers, gritting his teeth and taking one of his two knives strapped to his back in his hand. “Just for your smart mouth, Imma teach you a lesson and cut yer tongue out. We’ll see how glib you think you are when you can’t talk no more.”

“Oh, you’re welcome to try,” the boy says, with no small amount of bravado in Arthur’s opinion. His voice shakes, but he’s really just standing there, all but inviting them to have a go at him. “Whether I have a tongue or not, I know I’ll still have more brains up here than you ever will!”

The stocky one roars like a dying wounded creature that Arthur can’t quite identify (but is certain is definitely the laughingstock of the animal kingdom) and launches himself at the boy who ducks the first blow, shaking in his flappy-sleeved robes and bracing himself for the next strike that seems inevitable —

— and then the burly man with the knife gurgles and falls to his knees next to the boy, who’s got his arms raised in some kind of weird fighting stance, Arthur’s dagger protruding from below his shoulder where he’s thrown it to pierce the heart. The boy blinks and steps aside, looking dumbfounded, which is why he completely misses another man charging at him, twirling a morningstar.

Arthur really doesn’t have time for this nonsense. He snaps out a spell, curling his hand into a fist and yanks the charging thug back so that he slams with force back into a tree, knocked out. The other men notice him then, and ready their weapons.

“Doing a good deed?” One of them yells, the one with the ugly teeth, and the sound his sword makes as he slides it out of its scabbard would’ve been a lot more intimidating if not for the fact that Arthur can see it’s obviously not been cleaned in a while, blood dulling the edges. In fact, it pretty much stutters out instead of slide, and that’s a little amusing in itself.

“Can’t stand by while idiots like you go around taking advantage of other idiots,” Arthur responds, if only because he was so irritated by the boy’s actions earlier. 

The boy snaps out of his dazed reverie to glare at Arthur. “I heard that!”

Ignoring that comment, Arthur runs towards the man who taunted him, catching him off-guard. A quick step to the side and a solid kick to the jaw has the man crumpling, scrabbling at his messily shaven face and whimpering in pain. Never one to take chances, Arthur punches him on the other side and deals a blow to the back of his neck.

He overcomes the other two men easily. As with most bandits, they’re all bulk and weapons but without any real skill. “Should be ashamed, really, that they think they can rob people like this,” Arthur says aloud when he checks if they’ve any valuable weapons or things he can make use of. They don’t, sadly, not in that department, but Arthur nicks a couple of nice-looking gloves that he stashes into his satchel. You could never go wrong with some decent hide gloves. He revisits what he just said, and then turns to the boy. “Then again, they were doing a pretty fine job of robbing you, weren’t they? Would’ve made a cleaner job of it too if you weren’t so keen on messing things up for yourself, boy.”

“Excuse you,” the boy protests, drawing himself up to his full height as he walks towards Arthur amidst the groaning, fallen men. Arthur notes with some surprise that he’s actually shorter than this halfwit. “I’m twenty-four, I’ll have you know that I’m no _boy_.”

“Huh.” Arthur examines his face a little more closely now that he’s near, and sure enough, there’re small tell-tale lines to the boy’s face and a hint of scruff. He’s also not as scrawny as he thought he first was; rather, the boy has some lean, whipcord muscle, and is just ridiculously tall. He’s also not bad-looking, and under different circumstances... well, he isn’t going to go there. Even so, Arthur can’t resist saying, “Could’ve fooled me.”

“You,” the boy — no, man — begins to sputter. “You don’t look that old, yourself! Who’re you to call me one?”

“I’m actually younger than you are,” Arthur says, laughing, and shakes his head. He tosses the stranger’s bag back at him. “I’m Arthur. Much as I’d like to sympathise with you for getting jumped by this group of brigands, I can’t help but think you were, as they said, practically inviting them to attack you.” He gestures at the stranger’s choice of garb. “Just look at what you’re wearing! Is that silk, or something? They can probably smell it or see the glint from miles away.”

The man raises his eyebrows at Arthur.

“Okay, I’m exaggerating,” he admits. “Regardless, you don’t wear finery like that and walk out alone here. Just because there are fewer bandits doesn’t mean you shouldn’t be careful.”

The man scowls, hooking his arms through the straps to hold his bag in place. “Everyone deserves a safe place to live in, or a decent path to travel by.”

Arthur sighs. “And I agree, but without the necessary people really cracking down on crime around here and all the attacks, it’s probably good to exercise some caution. Don’t you think?”

The stranger seems to consider this for a bit, then extends his hand to Arthur, looking sheepish. “I’m sorry, I never thanked you for saving me. I’m Merlin. Though,” he adds, “I’ll have you know that I had everything under control.”

Grasping it firmly, Arthur gives Merlin’s hand a cursory shake before he steps back and folds his arms, trying for the most deadpan expression possible. “Oh, absolutely. You had them right where you wanted them. And were you going to incapacitate them with your bare fists, nobleman-style?”

Merlin scoffs and shoves at him. “I’m a decent fighter. It was all going according to plan.”

Arthur’s skeptical. “Right.”

“Where are you heading from here, Arthur?” Merlin shrugs and tilts his head to indicate they should keep walking, and Arthur follows suit. “I was unable to get a horse for my ride to Gaer, so it’s getting there on foot for me.”

“Well,” Arthur starts, and looks at Merlin, wondering if he can trust him. The other man has dimples, and a shy, hesitant smile, but there’s no reason to let his guard down. He’ll be careful. “I’m heading in that general direction as well.” Which is true, since being this out in the East can only mean you’re heading to that one particular city and beyond. 

Merlin grins at him, and Arthur can’t help but smile back. Merlin has a kind of infectious smile that lights up his entire face, from his white teeth to the crinkles of his eyes. It’s so sincere, it practically oozes warmth; Arthur, to his horror, finds his jadedness melting just a little. “Why don’t we travel together? Two of us makes us less likely to be targeted compared to just the one traveler alone.”

“Won’t you bog me down?” Arthur says, teasing. 

“Like I said!” Merlin flexes his arms, and Arthur has to stop and snort for a bit at the ridiculousness of the image. “I’m stronger than people think!”

He flicks at Merlin’s ear, at that, laughing over Merlin’s brief cry of protest. “I should probably just stay with you to keep an eye on you, and make sure you stay out of trouble. It’s only a few days’ walk to Gaer from here, after all.”

“You’re mean,” Merlin grumbles, then folds his arms and turns to Arthur, his expression calculating.

“What is it?” Arthur asks, a little floored by the intense gaze. Merlin’s eyes are a brilliant blue, much brighter than his own.

“Nothing,” Merlin says, then smirks. “Maybe you’ll like keeping me around, my gallant saviour. I’d like to keep an eye on you myself.”

Merlin skips on ahead, whistling, and it takes Arthur a couple of minutes to realise that maybe Merlin had just _flirted_ with him. And dunce though that Merlin may be, Arthur finds himself not... opposed to the idea.

He feels the small, unspoken challenge stirring him and his magic. If it were a cat, he suspected it’d purr at Merlin.

Well, then.

Two can play at that game.

* * *

 

It’s not so bad, all things considered. 

Merlin always prepares for the worst, given some of the jobs he’s taken alongside magic-related assassinations, and he’s not sure what he’d been expecting of Arthur. He hadn’t had much information on Arthur at all but for the rough illustration of him, face pinched with a troubled, inked scowl. Somehow he’d thought that Arthur would be harsher, more cynical, even a right bastard. 

He isn’t, though.

Honestly, Merlin’s not proud of his past. He’s had to kill many, many people, to the point where all their echoed screams in his mind have merged together in a dull roar. 

Merlin no longer feels the phantom pain of a young witch’s cursed fingers around his wrist, a searing burn as she cried and called him a monster, for hurting her, hurting her family, couldn’t he see that they were human, just like Merlin, couldn’t he understand— 

The twins he’d been forced to kill, when they turned on him after seeing their mother’s body on the floor. Their small, stricken faces had contorted in anguish as they cried out words in a language he didn’t understand, the pain shooting through him like a flame, the two children holding hands and with their unjoined hands stretched towards him. 

The way they’d fallen to his daggers, knees buckling as the crackling magic in the air died out with a whisper stayed firmly in his mind for days after. Their hands had remained joined even in death.

He doesn’t believe in senseless killing, or so he tells himself when he sharpens his knives absently, examining the sharp edges and wondering what it’d be like to have someone turn that on him. The young twins had been the first and only children he’d ever killed, and he’d sworn never to harm any children ever again if he could help it. Even if — and the Guild had given him so much trouble for this — they were magical.

Perhaps it’s his luck more than anything else, but he’s usually landed missives to pursue mostly corrupted witches and warlocks, those who begin killing sprees and abuse their powers. Many go insane from the sheer power they wield, especially if they choose to consort with demons for more power, more magic, to the point where it begins to consume them from within. Merlin has seen firsthand what magic gone wrong can do to a person, has seen the shadows emerging from the corners of a room to devour a man whole as he begged and whimpered, his eyes wide as he scrabbled at the ground, the sounds of non-existent teeth crunching wetly at his bones. In hindsight, killing that warlock had been a kindness. Cavorting with the darker spirits, though, is just an exercise in stupidity; does nobody know how it always truly ends? 

Contrary to what some people at the Guild would have him believe of common folk being tainted with the touch of magic, Merlin does know that they _are_ , ultimately, just human— like what the mother of the twins had said, before he’d killed her. It’s worse, because he does know, and he’s not wallowing in ignorance. They really are people, and if magic doesn’t discriminate like what some of the heathens conspiring against the Guild seem to suggest, anyone could’ve been born with magic. 

It wouldn’t have mattered then if they had blood bluer than the hues of the afternoon sky, or if they were of the savages up in the north; if they believed in old gods that had no place in this new era of Albion, or if they were as devout to the new religions like the Guild taught everyone to be. It could’ve been anyone. If he’d drawn the short straw, it could’ve been Merlin.

Magic is an evil force, but if the long, torturously slow years of living out days and days of extinguishing lives of magic users the same way one puts out the last dying flicker of a candle have taught Merlin one thing, it’s that the people who possess it are not necessarily so. 

Yes, Merlin had been one of the best in the Guild. He’d also had a knack for sticking his nose into places it didn’t belong, and for getting punished for asking unwelcome and incendiary questions. Four, five years, and Merlin had to wonder: did nobody see things as they were?

Apparently not.

The Guild’s mastery over Merlin and their other knives had been absolute; the conditioning and rejection of magic so deeply ingrained and woven within him that he would never dream of questioning orders, even if he did have a talent for interpreting missives so creatively it’d given the entire circle of Elders grief. There were some things you just couldn’t leave behind, even if you’d abandoned what had been essentially your entire life before you changed everything.

It’s with those thoughts in mind that Merlin regards Arthur now from the corner of his eye, shuffling a few steps behind Merlin, feet soft and quiet on the earth. He’s still wary of Arthur, certainly, but also reluctantly and pleasantly surprised by him. Being sunny and a bit of a dolt nearly always works with his clients, because the impression he gives of good-natured incompetence means they will underestimate Merlin and inevitably relax around him, allowing for more than enough openings to strike. 

It works with Arthur too, even if he’s not one to really unwind. He jokes around with Merlin, sure enough, but he’s a careful one. When Merlin heads off into the woods to find a convenient tree or scout ahead only to return silently to where Arthur’s back is turned, Arthur tenses immediately and whips around, seeming to sense Merlin even before he sees him. 

If Merlin didn’t knew better, he’d call it a kind of sixth sense, but he knows it’s Arthur’s magic sensing him, extending around him as protection. Years in the field and of being within close proximity of magic users have resulted in Merlin being able to sense magic, himself, even without the tools some of the others in the Guild use. There’s always a certain thickness in the air, an invisible fog that makes it slightly more difficult to breathe, and some other effects depending on the person. A sorcerer Merlin targeted once made the temperature drop by several degrees in any room he was in, even at the height of summer, while a witch who practiced necromancy caused grass and plants to wilt wherever she stepped on when out in the sunlight.

Arthur is... his magic doesn’t feel hostile. It’s just there, in the background, like a blanket or a sheen over them. There’s a richness to his magic, and it feels potent, but Merlin can only really feel it if he concentrates.

“Daydreaming, Merlin?”

“What?” Merlin turns to look at Arthur, and the momentary distraction causes a branch he could’ve dodged to smack him right in the face. 

Arthur laughs so hard he has to stop and lean against the nearest tree trunk for support.

“You are a terrible human being,” Merlin vows, pinching his nose, glad for the distraction from the darker turn his thoughts had been taking. Sometimes he thinks too much. “My node hurth.”

“Well, I didn’t intend for that to happen. You walked right into it!” Okay, maybe Merlin did at that. “I was going to say that the skies are dark, and that maybe we should find shelter in case it rains.”

“Just shelter?” Merlin says, brushing the back of his knuckles against Arthur’s arm as he scouts the area quickly for a cave, because the stormy clouds don’t look promising. “You could just ask.”

Arthur coughs. “Wouldn’t want us to get sick.”

He doesn’t comment on how much of a spoilsport Arthur is, but it really is quite fun getting him to blush. “You have a point. There’s a small nook near those trees, if you squint. Let’s go.”

When Arthur pushes back some creepers and vines growing near the entrance of it, he whistles. “This is quite well-hidden. Some sharp eyes you’ve got there.”

Merlin laughs, fidgeting with the sheathes of his knives hidden just under his coat. “I like exploring.”

“Rich one like you? I thought you’d be more of a scholarly kind.”

They don’t quite huddle together near the entrance as the first drops of rain start hitting the ground; Arthur sits with his back to one side of the small cave, Merlin to the other. It’s a small space and their legs are long, so their ankles and heels kind of hit each other whenever they move.

Neither of them say anything, but they make a bit of a game out of it, trying not to laugh as they aim for well-placed kicks at each other’s shins. The sky darkens out, and the steady rhythm of rain begins to build to the rumble of a storm.

“Should we build a fire?” Merlin asks. “I don’t think it’s that cold, though.”

“We’ll be fine.” Sitting back, Arthur adjusts the long knitted scarf he’s taken to keeping around his neck since the weather took a turn for the worse. “You all right?”

Merlin nods, studying Arthur’s profile. He’s seen all kinds of sorcerers, from the corrupted ones using magic to gain power and humble peasants who’d just had the misfortune of being born with magic. He doesn’t quite know where Arthur fits in.

They’re both content in that loud silence for a while, the sounds of the rain outside echoing into and within the cave, and then Arthur sighs and fishes in his bag. “I’ve still got some food, if you’d like some.”

“Nice of you to share.” Merlin takes the bread that Arthur offers. “What’s your story, traveler?”

His mouth full and looking truly ridiculous, Arthur manages a muffled, “Hmm?”

“You look very intent. Driven, even,” Merlin says, before quickly adding, “You don’t have to tell me if you don’t want to, I’m just curious.”

“I...” Linking his fingers and resting them on the edge of one knee, Arthur looks out at the rain for a bit. “I’m kind of looking for my uncle.”

“Relative you’ve never met?” Despite himself, Merlin is pretty curious now. It’s not so much a personal curiosity, not really, but the way Arthur’s so guarded yet vulnerable kind of makes Merlin want to know more. Never any harm in trying to understand what makes your target tick, as long as you don’t get too attached.

Merlin knows that well.

“No,” Arthur says sharply, startling Merlin a little, but he takes a deep breath and rubs at his neck after. “No, I’ve met him. When I was really young.”

“Father’s side?” 

“Mother’s. He wasn’t very nice to me or my sister, but I could tell he cared about my mother a lot, when we visited him. It’s just... I don’t think he liked us much.”

“Sounds like some history there.” It feels like a really casual conversation, lulling Merlin into this sense of trying to get to know a stranger more. Like talking to a friend.

Arthur chuckles, a little somberly. “You don’t know the half of it. Mother didn’t really like talking about it much when she was alive, but I got the gist of the thing. Sounds like a story right out of a bard’s tale. You probably don’t want to hear it.”

“Humour me, it isn’t like the rain’s going to stop any time soon.” It doesn’t take a genius to see that Arthur does want to share what does look to be an interesting story.

“My mother was highborn, a young lady of an estate that overlooked a far off ocean.” Arthur makes a gesture as if to illustrate the distance and the height of the estate from the waters. “She was very beloved by the servants and the cavalry that served her lord father because she was fair and kind. Uncle Agravaine was her older brother, and normally, the son gets singled out while the daughter is ignored in some noble families. But, it was plain for everyone to see that my mother was the favourite, even within the family and the village.”

“So you have blue blood,” Merlin says, leaning forward as if to squint at Arthur. “Too bad you have appalling manners.”

“Like you’re one to talk!” Arthur flicks a finger at him, and Merlin yelps. “Shut up. Well, kind of. I guess I’d be technically unacknowledged in a family tapestry, or whatever those people have on their walls.”

“How come?”

Scratching at his stubble, Arthur looks uncomfortable. “My mother eloped with my father. He, um, was a fledgling knight from Caerleon, and... well, I’ve heard this embarrassing story more times than I care to count, but he took a shine to my mother and she to him. My grandparents were going to marry her off to a wealthy lord from another province to secure their social standing or something, but she would have none of it. ‘For love!’ she’d said, and when they locked her up for her insolence, my father helped her escape and they rode off on his horse to a future together.”

Merlin realises he’s forgotten to chew. “Wow,” is all he can say after he mulls over that. “A love story of legends. Fit for songs and tales by the fire.”

“Rather.” Arthur’s blushing at that, for some reason. “I don’t know how much of it is exaggerated, but when I was really young and while they were both still alive, I would sometimes see how they looked at each other. I didn’t really get it then, and maybe never will, but I got the impression they’d do anything for each other.”

“They’d sacrificed a lot to be together, didn’t they?” Merlin says, looking at Arthur. “A young knight who might’ve been rising in the ranks, giving up his status and what he could’ve become for love. A highborn lady who would’ve made a great match in marriage, giving it all up for a life with the man she believed in.”

Arthur snorts. “Reckless, really. But whenever I remember how they looked at one another, I think: how could I blame them?”

He looks so uncertain and wistful in that moment, it’s almost like he’s ten years younger. Merlin shakes his head and looks down at his hands. “How indeed.”

“When my mother ran away from home, everyone was devastated. It was selfish of her, yes, but she’d tried pleading her case and had been shot down. My uncle might’ve felt the most betrayed by her leaving, because he adored her. She used to tell me sadly how distant he’d become, how it was her fault for leaving him, and for making him deal with all the expectations of the castle himself,” Arthur says. “It couldn’t have been easy, though.”

Merlin folds his arms and props them up against his knees, leaning to rest his chin on them. Seeing Arthur expose himself like this, even if he’s omitting details, is interesting. The Guild couldn’t get much information on Arthur’s heritage or background due to how obscure it was, but hearing this from him casts Arthur in an entirely new light.

Hearing Arthur animatedly talk about his family like this is... well, Merlin cannot relate on that front, having never had any family until he married, but it twists his heart and makes him unwillingly think of the families of those he’d killed before. With some effort, he turns his attention back to Arthur, who’s gone on talking anyway, seemingly oblivious to Merlin’s temporary distraction.

“So, long story short, we’ve met, my uncle and I. He might’ve refused to come when my mother requested for him on her deathbed, but Morgana and I have heard he’d been wracked with guilt and despair ever since she passed. I have something really important to ask him, and even if he considers me a bastard for my status... well, I’d like to try appealing to his better nature. See if we can’t work something out. We’re kin, and blood must mean something, surely, if my mother was so important to him.”

“Have you sought him out before?”

“Yes, once after my mother passed, when I was visiting. Before they started to... well, before things happened, and we started getting pursued in earnest.” That must’ve been when the Guild had heard about the manifestation of Arthur’s immense power, Merlin theorises, trying to match up the possible years and timeline in his mind. “We were already orphans then, desperate for some shelter after... after some attacks. He made it quite clear we weren’t very welcome. Maybe we reminded him too much of her.”

Merlin raises his eyebrow, silently prompting.

“Um,” Arthur begins. “She was fair-haired, like me. I take after her the most. Morgana has more of her frame, but my face resembles my mother’s. I don’t think uncle has ever gotten over my mother’s death, or even forgiven himself for his rage-fueled decision of not seeing her one last time. He might hear me out.”

Merlin reaches a hand out to pull some vines back. They’re wet, and it’s still raining outside, but it’s lightened some. There are weak rays of light streaming through the leaves in the forest, even as it continues to rain. “It’s worth a shot.” He lets the vines fall back, and smiles at Arthur, trying for cheeky. “I like it when you tell me about yourself. Cuts the mysterious stranger enigma a little.”

Rolling his eyes, Arthur places his hands behind his head and lies back against the edge of the wall. “Mysterious stranger, really?”

“You brood!” Merlin says. “And now you’ve got this whole romantic, tortured past thing going on.”

Arthur eyes him. “Have a weakness for tragic storybook figures, do you?”

“No!” Merlin says too quickly, because he absolutely doesn’t have a thing for well-built blonds. Even if they brood very attractively in the rain. 

Quirking a smile at him, Arthur doesn’t say anything. He props a knee up and rests an arm against it, framed in the darkness of the cave and the rain-painted gray of their surroundings. “If you say so.”

* * *

Other people wake up to the sounds of birds chirping, the rustling of trees in the morning breeze. If they’re in a particularly busy city, they’ll stir in their beds at the wafting fragrance of freshly baked bread in nearby markets creeping through the edges of their windows, or even the cheerful hollering and gossiping in the streets. 

Not Arthur this morning, alas, as he finds himself rudely jerked awake by something wet and soppy suddenly landing on his face.

“Merlin!” He shouts, knowing who the culprit is even before he opens his eyes, yanking whatever it is off his face. It’s barely morning as is, and the sky’s still a dark blue but for the hints of sun behind the mountains in the distance, peeking out through the open folds of his tent.

“Rise and shine!” Merlin yells back, laughing from somewhere.

“You little—” He gets to his feet and runs a hand through his mussed hair, quite unable to suppress a yawn. 

Arthur steps out, tries to pinpoint Merlin’s location, squinting sleepily. ““I’ll get you for that!”

“You’re welcome to try,” comes the teasing reply. “Get up already.”

“Are you always this obnoxiously cheerful in the morning?” Arthur huffs, petulant, shuffling over to the dead fire and seeing Merlin’s already collected some berries for breakfast. “Couldn’t you have shaken me awake or something like a _normal_ inconsiderate person?” Arthur pauses, before heading back to his tent and just reaching in for an extra loaf of bread to share between them. 

“Where’s the fun in that? And that’s revenge for snoring so loudly I could hear you from the next tent.”

“I do _not,”_ Arthur says indignantly. “If I wake up earlier than you next, you’re going to be in for a nasty surprise.” Sitting down gingerly on the dewy grass, Arthur whips out a red cloth to spread things on. “Threats I do mean to carry out aside, I’ve got some bread, if you’d like to share,” Arthur calls out, wondering where Merlin is.

 “Thank you,” Merlin says from behind him, and Arthur turns.

It would probably have happened sooner or later, but he’s not really prepared for the sight of Merlin with only his dark breeches on, half-laced, and another wet cloth slung around his neck. He’s taken aback for a moment at the image Merlin presents as he walks back towards where Arthur’s seated on the ground, water still trickling down his skin.

Merlin notices, after a bit, smiling a little knowing smile as he tilts his head, showing off more of that graceful line of his pale neck. Bastard. “All right?”

“Y-yeah,” Arthur mumbles, rubbing the back of his neck and makes a show of being busy with breaking pieces of bread off the loaf to eat. “There’s a river nearby? I might get some washing done.”

“You might want to bathe too, you’re all stinky.” Merlin wrinkles his nose at him.

“Shut up.” He nudges Merlin’s shoulder with his own, and Merlin nudges back. “I guess I should, it’s been a while.”

The sound of chewing fills up the peaceful silence around them for a while. Merlin leans forward and looks at Arthur, bread in hand, with a cheeky expression. 

“What,” Arthur says suspiciously, when Merlin’s grin widens.

“I could wash your back,” Merlin offers, eyes twinkling.

Arthur chokes on his food and coughs so hard that Merlin has to thump his back a few times to help him out. He glares at Merlin after, who won’t stop laughing. “I was just taking the piss, Arthur!”

“Brat,” Arthur returns, rolling his eyes and drinking some water to feel better. 

“I’m wounded, I am.” Merlin bites into another sweet red berry, licking at the juices running down his chin. “That’s what I get after volunteering to help you out of the goodness of my heart, is it? Is it? I see how it is, now.”

“ _Someone’s_ dramatic,” Arthur observes, smiling into his water skin. Merlin sticks his tongue out at him.

“You heartless, cruel man,” Merlin says, getting to his feet and dusting himself off. “I’m not getting breakfast for you next time. I’ll let you sleep in and wake up completely hungry while I’m off being productive, because you’re a prat.”

Arthur chuckles, and shakes his head, continuing to eat. “Whatever you say, Merlin. Whatever you say.”

Merlin just gives him a look after that and retreats inside his tent. When he’s done with his food, he beats out the crumbs on the cloth and wraps it up to take to the river along with a few of his shirts. The sun’s not quite out in the sky yet, but it’s already pretty warm; they should dry over the afternoon.

In hindsight, he should’ve expected Merlin to pull one up over him when he goes to the river to bathe after he’s set all his clothes out to dry on a makeshift rope back at camp, but Arthur very unwisely forgets to take that into the consideration. That's the main reason why, when he gets out of the river to grab absently at his clothes he _knew_ were hanging next to the ratty towel he’s using to dry himself off, they’re not there.

A good while away, he can hear Merlin cackling back near their tents.

* * *

 

Three days later, and Arthur’s still yet to suspect anything.

As they keep walking in the crisp morning air, Merlin cheers inwardly at his awkward but ultimately successful attempt at subterfuge. Contrary to what Arthur believed of him, Merlin _did_ actually have the situation under control. If Arthur hadn’t stepped in to save him, as Merlin predicted he would — his face, even in the illustration, had just screamed meddling do-gooder — Merlin would’ve slit all their throats faster than they could’ve cried for help.

It had been more fun watching Arthur come in, a deadly force; untrained, but with a good eye and instinct for battle. Merlin had enjoyed watching him take the uncouth bandits out, a certain grace to his movements.

Perhaps Merlin’s natural dithering and tendency to mouth off at people had helped. That wasn’t even _acting_ , it had all been completely him, right there, taunting the bandits on to attack him. He likes to play with his opponents, tiring them out and humiliating them before he puts an end to them, especially if he wants to teach them a lesson. Otherwise, he’s usually not that much of a bastard.

Merlin might be enjoying this a little too much. He chuckles to himself, finding it amusing that Arthur flusters easily at a spot of flirtation. Merlin had seen him with the dairy girl, trying out his charms, and had pegged him for a bit of a rogue. And yet!

He had been thinking of just trying to gain Arthur’s trust briefly as a friend, but Merlin was too sharp to miss the short but unmistakable flicker of interest in Arthur’s eyes when he’d walked up to him, a quick look that swept across Merlin’s face and body before he’d looked away. It probably wasn’t intentional. Merlin knew the difference between looks that all but sized him up as an opponent or threat, and looks that were just that bit more, ah, thorough.

And so he’d changed his plan halfway. What was it Cedric had said? Adapt.

So Merlin winks, making it casual. Merlin drops his voice to a level he knows does things to both men and women alike, and boy, did it use to do things to Freya. It seemed like Arthur can’t escape its effects, either, if the way he pauses and turns to look at Merlin with that incredulous, half-awed expression whenever Merlin pulls that on him is any indication. Merlin laughs and makes jokes, keeps his distance, and then proceeds to linger a little longer near the fire before saying good night each time. 

Ha. No, he shouldn’t mess around with his target so; he might give part of the game away. There’s a pull about Arthur, though, with his expressive features and air of forbidding seriousness he gives off. He’s a pleasant kind of distraction, and Merlin does actually find Arthur quite attractive, with his broody look but sincere, crooked smile. He’s, occasionally, had to bed old sorceresses who’d called him ‘child’ and all manners of questionable warlocks before he could get an opening to kill them, so as far as things go, this assignment is turning out to be rather more enjoyable than he thought it would be.

Merlin feels alive like he hasn’t in a long while. For the longest time, thoughts of serving the Guild made him physically ill, after he’d discovered what they’d done, and what they’re still doing. But a part of him enjoys this game, always has. Merlin used to live for the deception and manipulation, the rush of sadistic satisfaction upon seeing his targets’ faces fall in dismay when they discover who he really is.

Still, Merlin hasn’t forgotten his rules, even if it’s been two years since he gave it all up; since Freya. He’ll play Pendragon, and collect his winnings before the week ends. A job is a job.

“Just past the river, then?” Merlin asks, putting on a bit of a show and stumbling over a non-existent tree root. He would probably never admit it to anyone who asks, but he’s liking playing the clumsy damsel. Driving Arthur mad provides for some bloody good entertainment. “Damned things.”

“Are you all right?” Arthur helps him up and sighs in a put-upon fashion, shaking his head. And there it is: the exasperation tinged with disbelief, but somehow fond all the same. Arthur really is one of those genuinely good people. Merlin tries not to dwell upon it too much. “You’re terrible, Merlin. I don’t know anyone like you is ever allowed out of the house. How were you as a child? Your parents must’ve had such a time!”

The sting Merlin feels is very real. He’s actually surprised at the unexpected, dull pain of it, his smile frozen on his face. “I was an orphan since birth,” Merlin says quietly, pulling away from Arthur, who visibly stills as though he’d been slapped. “Though if you ask the... orphanage, they’d tell you I was a quiet child and an excellent pupil.”

If by orphanage you meant the Guild, of course, and how the tutelage he received shifted from arithmetic and letters to combat training and assassination techniques once he was old enough to wield a knife.

“Merlin,” Arthur starts, and Merlin just shrugs and keeps walking, tucking his hands inside his long sleeves on either end.

“There was no way you could’ve known.”

“I was an ass, though.” He’s earnest, this Arthur, this man who steps in front of him to prevent him from continuing down his path out of the forest to look him in the eye. Abruptly, Merlin gets the impression that Arthur isn’t someone who makes apologies very often, if at all. He’s fidgeting, the very picture of uncomfortable, but there’s something very heartwarming about him trying to make an effort. Merlin is aware he’s just playing at reeling Arthur in, but contrary to popular belief, his heart isn’t made of stone. “I, uh. I’m sorry.”

His heart clenches, just the smallest bit. “All right.” 

Arthur doesn’t move, hesitating and looking unsure. It’s like he wants to give Merlin a consolatory pat or awkward hug, and that just seems so very much what someone of his character would do that Merlin isn’t sure if he should laugh or be impressed at his own observation.

“It’s fine.” Merlin tries for a smile, probably aware it doesn’t quite reach his eyes. “It’s been a long time, Arthur, honest.” This is probably the most truthful he’s been with Arthur so far, at least in terms of talking about himself. Merlin feels almost vulnerable, but he knows working with guile and deception means having to weave some truth between your lies to give them credibility. Right now, though, it feels like he’s wearing his heart on his sleeve. The only other person he’d ever talked to about his parents aside from the Elders was Freya.

“Are you sure?”

“Absolutely.” Because he’s the only one who can lighten the tension now, Merlin adds, “You’re getting me a pint at the next tavern when we get to the city. No way you’re getting off scot-free!”

“Hey! I certainly wasn’t expecting to just get away with it,” Arthur sighs, looking affronted, but his smile is a relieved one. “It was insensitive of me, and I’ll make it up to you.”

“Just get me that drink and we’ll call it even,” Merlin says, feeling curiously better, and disturbed at exactly that: there’s something about seeing someone like Arthur so stricken with guilt, however briefly, that makes him want to forgive him. It’s saying something that Arthur’s kind of chipping away at Merlin’s impenetrable emotional walls like this, even if Merlin’s playing at being a big-hearted, clumsy and naïve young man. 

This doesn’t bode well. 

Discomfited, Merlin tries to slip into more familiar territory and lets his voice run low as he looks at Arthur, really _looks_ , raising a knowing eyebrow. “I’m sure you’ll find a way to make it up to me sooner or later.”

“I’m just going to ignore you,” Arthur says, shaking his head, but his cheeks are dusted with the faintest shade of pink. He starts their little walk again, striding ahead at a comfortable pace while the birds sing overhead, loud and lovelorn. “You’re terrible.”

“So I’ve been told,” Merlin replies, with a little hum of acknowledgment. “And incorrigible.”

“People call you out on it, and you still do the things you do. Shouldn’t have expected anything less from you, _Mer_ lin.”

“They like me like this,” Merlin says offhandedly, and then he slows down so Arthur’s next to him before he leans over. “And in many other ways.”

“Stop!” Arthur’s laugh is loud in the forest, and he shoves at Merlin. “You’re doing this on purpose!”

Merlin lets Arthur ruffles his hair, feeling the cool slither of Freya’s pendant against his skin, and wonders for the most fleeting and irrational moment if he’s made a mistake.

It’s probably too late now. Flashes of Freya’s last moments and her forgiveness cross his mind, her pressing the necklace into his hands as he knelt by her side. Merlin had been raised to loathe and scorn the warlocks and witches of his age, the Sisters and Brothers telling him and the other young orphans twice every morning and twice every night over their daily bread and threadbare beds about their wickedness and their sins.

And yet, he’d vowed as Freya’s last whispered breath left her body that he would kill innocent magic users no more, that he would never serve the Guild again.

Merlin keeps his face impassive, and bites his lip. He’s never really conflicted, but he feels like he’s wronging Freya, like he’s breaking a promise. Merlin is a man of his word, even if it had been made to his dead wife. He had sworn he would deliver Pendragon to the Guild, though, and... he wasn’t about to go back on that particular oath, with the kind of consequences they’d promised they’d inflict upon him if he didn’t follow through.

Freya would understand.

He slips his fingers just down the front of his tunic for a bit, brushes the linked chains and the intricate edges of the physical reminder of his wanting to atone for his past. Actually, Freya wouldn’t understand: she would shout at him for breaking his word, for subjecting yet another innocent, in her words, to torture and death. Maybe give him the cold shoulder for the longest time, the silence more cutting than her words could ever be.

It had been his fault then, and it would be his fault now if Arthur falls into the Guild’s hands.

He has no choice, Merlin tells himself, willing his inner turmoil to settle. Arthur is a target, an object, a creature he has to subdue for the Guild for peace and order. Spending too much time with him is beginning to make Merlin waver and question himself and his beliefs, and he can’t have that.

He would have to kill Arthur as soon as possible.

It’d be a kindness. The Guild wants Arthur alive, but Merlin’d be damned before he lets them do to another person what they did to Freya. Never again.

* * *

Merlin talks a great deal, Arthur realises, but never does he truly talk about _himself_.

So, of course, he brings it up. 

“So what about _you_ , Merlin?” Arthur asks, as they plod down a wide bricked road with tall, imposing buildings on either side while keeping an eye out for a place to eat. They reached Gaer a little later than expected, a massive fortress of a city like its namesake. “For all that you ask me questions and tell interesting stories, you’ve never really told me anything about yourself.”

“Funny, I’m rather sure I did,” Merlin says, scratching his head and laughing as he walks. “Adopted by an offensively wealthy family from the orphanage, rebelled, wanted to find my own path and all that. Didn’t I?”

Arthur laughs; he can’t help it. There’s something about the way Merlin so earnestly rolls out his outrageous statements or how he describes something that really engages Arthur. 

The scrawny idiot is growing on him. Arthur certainly hadn’t expected that. Merlin is loud, vocal, occasionally irritating and often _accidentally_ flirtatious, because it’s something that Merlin says just happens, honestly, Arthur, it just does. They are traits he normally cannot stand in other people, but Merlin somehow makes all the little frustrating bits about his personality blend together to seem charming. 

He talks back at Arthur, makes sarcastic remarks about Arthur’s waistline whenever he had one too many helpings of whatever food they can scrounge up in the forest, and grins cheekily all the time whenever he leaves Arthur speechless and gawping because of Merlin’s sheer _audacity_.

Sometimes, when Arthur thinks Merlin isn’t looking, he plays a little game. He’ll just stare at the back of that black head and wonder what goes on inside it, what thoughts flit about and how they just escape Merlin’s mouth without any discernible filter. 

Merlin comments on anything and everything without preamble, talking Arthur’s ears off, and it would’ve been generally quite an annoyance if not for how he smiles at Arthur while he does it, all dimples and bright eyes.

And then Merlin, as if sensing Arthur’s nonchalant interest, would always just stiffen. Not jerkily; despite his clumsiness, there is a grace to Merlin’s movements that Arthur has been  quite surprised to discover. No, he would just stop moving entirely, movement of his limbs ceasing as if in a slow, roiling wave as he shifts, stilling, before turning to look at Arthur.

Sometimes, Merlin speaks, lips quirking in one of those thrice-damned smiles. “Like what you see?” He’d tease. Or sometimes, he’ll stick a tongue out and throw something in Arthur’s general direction.

Mostly, he usually stays where he is, eyes never leaving Arthur’s over the fire, the chaotic dance of the flickering flames mirrored in his eyes. He’ll just look, and look, and look.

Those are the most puzzling times, because Arthur can never quite understand what Merlin is trying to say, or not to say, or if he wants to say anything at all. For someone so expressive, Merlin becomes very difficult to read during those moments.

It makes Arthur curious.

“You mentioned very vaguely at one point that you ‘had a great deal of money back where it counts and where you never want to return to’.” Stopping at a junction, Arthur notes a busy street with makeshift tables laid out and barrels for stools. He jerks a thumb, and Merlin nods, following him down the bustling alley where all kinds of delicious smells are wafting towards them. “So, no. I mean, you’ve told me enough about your friend Gwaine’s antics and then some, why not share something about yourself?”

Merlin snorts, shrugging. “Busybody. Let’s decide on dinner, first.” 

They walk in circles contemplating and arguing about what to eat before finally sitting down near a little booth with spiced meat grilled on broad leaves the likes of which Arthur’s never seen. It smells divine, though.  

“What do you want to know?” Merlin asks casually when they’re messily halfway through the meal, setting his spoon down. “Mischievous pranks that got little old me in trouble, sexual hiccups, or my dark, mysterious past?”

The last suggestion is so absurd that Arthur nearly chokes, and has to stop eating for a while to take a gulp of water from his cup. “A dark, mysterious past? You?”

“Hey!” Merlin looks like he’s fighting to keep from grinning. “I’m plenty enigmatic.”

“Pull the other one,” Arthur says, and leans back, tapping the worn edge of the dark wooden table with his fingers. “And sexual hiccups? I hope for the sake of the girls you’ve been with you knew where to put it.”

Merlin dips his fingers in his cup and shakes droplets at Arthur’s face. Arthur ducks, laughing. “I sure as hell do, you condescending ass!” 

Arthur whistles. “Well, aren’t _you_ the experienced lover.”

Shifting in his seat, Merlin kicks at Arthur’s legs, resting his arm against the table before leaning in close towards Arthur. This close, Arthur can see Merlin biting his bottom lip. “And what makes you think there were only women?”

He’s struck speechless for a moment, because even though he had his suspicions before — hard not to with Merlin lingering around him and making suggestive comments — it’s another thing to have them confirmed.

Merlin raises his eyebrow and sits back, taking another swig from his cup. “Well,” he says, putting the crudely carved thing down and looking intently at the rippling water before changing the subject entirely, “I couldn’t help but notice you used magic, in the forest.”

Arthur stiffens. It’s not that he didn’t expect Merlin to notice, but he’d assumed from Merlin’s not bringing it up that he was probably not someone who believed in the prosecution of sorcery practitioners. Something about the way Merlin says it puts him immediately on guard. “You going to report me?” He whispers harshly, hand already unwillingly on the hilt of his dagger. He’s come to _like_ Merlin, he wouldn’t enjoy hurting him to make an escape. But he would do it if he had to. 

Bitterly, Arthur realises this is the person magic has made him, and can’t help resenting his ‘gift’ for a moment. It’s made him consider himself first above others, if it would ensure his continued survival.

Merlin’s eyes widen, and he holds up his hands quickly in a defensive gesture. “No, I— I didn’t say that! You saved my life, what kind of repayment would that be? Damn it, Arthur.”

Arthur relaxes minutely. “What did you mean by that, then?”

Merlin lowers his hands, still watching Arthur cautiously. “I knew someone with magic. It wasn’t easy for her, and she... struggled with keeping it hidden. She told me how difficult it was to hide, how painful that she had to lie about who she really was. They tell us many things about the evils of magic, but she was a good person, who never hurt anyone.”

“Not all magic users hurt people,” he says, defensive. Arthur finds himself watching Merlin’s hands as the other man twiddles his fingers, unsure, scrambling words together to justify his initial statement.

“I know. You asked me to share something with you.” Merlin sighs. “So I wanted to tell you that I knew a magic user, and that I can sympathise with the life you’re forced to live, as a fugitive from the imposed laws of The Guild.”

Arthur can’t help sneering, even if Merlin is saying what he’s saying with the best of intentions. “I don’t need your sympathy.”

“I wasn’t particularly offering it,” Merlin snaps, some irritation finally flaring in his expression. “She didn’t ask to be born with magic, but she didn’t abuse it, and was devout. They killed her, though. They killed her, anyway, just because she was magic.”

The conversation comes to a halt after Merlin’s outburst, and again, Arthur feels like an ass. He really needs to just stop talking, period. 

“Who is... who was she?” He stumbles over his question, a sinking feeling telling him he already knows how much the girl meant to Merlin. 

Merlin grits his teeth and looks away from Arthur, avoiding his touch, and then his shoulders slump. “My wife.”

There’s really nothing he can say to that. “I’m sorry.”

“As am I.” Merlin runs a hand through his hair, frustrated. “I’m not trying to play a game of ‘who has it worse off’, Arthur, not at all. We’ve been traveling together for a while, and I just thought I’d say that yes, I saw, and no, I’m not going to tell anyone. And you can trust me. I’ve never really told anyone about her, so... there’s that. I thought you’d understand.”

“I do.” Arthur says quietly. “I’ve been an ass to you as of late. I really don’t mean the things I say, sometimes.”

Merlin chuckles, a little weakly. “You _are_ an ass, but I know you’re not malicious or anything. Forget about it.”

Arthur shakes his head and stands up, holding a hand out to Merlin, who takes it after a beat. “Come on. I’ll get you two pints at a tavern tonight, because it’s two times now I’ve fucked things up between us because I don’t know when to shut up.”

Merlin hefts his bag over his shoulder and strides to meet Arthur’s walking pace. “I’m still grateful you saved me. You should know your having magic doesn’t matter to me, not one whit.”

“Ha,” Arthur says, nudging at Merlin a little with his elbow. “With my background, you’ll have to forgive me for doubting a statement like that almost immediately whenever anybody says it. Just... it’s been tough. I’m sorry about your wife.”

Shaking his head, Merlin opens the door to a dimly lit tavern just down the corner. “The past is the past.” The air’s heavy with the smell of ale and sweat, but Arthur doesn’t quite mind it. He prefers darker taverns and places he can be inconspicuous in. 

“What was her name?” Arthur ventures when they sit down near the bartender, signaling for drinks. 

Merlin smiles a little sadly to himself, and fingers the chain around his neck. 

“It doesn’t matter anymore.”

_Freya._

* * *

Pouring the rest of his wine into his skin, Merlin hiccups and makes a show of patting Arthur on his back a little unsteadily. “I’m going to go check for rooms for us, so just give me a moment.”

“All right,” Arthur says, looking at Merlin warily. “Did you drink that much?”

“Ah’m fine,” Merlin replies, drawing out the _fine._ “You keep drinking, I’ll be right back.”

He saunters over to another woman behind the counter and slowly straightens up, expression shifting back to alertness when he’s certain he’s far away enough for Arthur to not notice the difference. He’s hardly drunk at all, but for his plan to work, he’s going to have to feign that. Merlin takes out his coin pouch and slides a few gold pieces forward. “One room for two.”

The woman’s sweet, round face crumples a bit in confusion. “Did you want two rooms, sir? We’ve got a few more available, you don’t necessarily have to cramp into just the one...”

Merlin smiles at her disarmingly, before dropping another few gold pieces onto the countertop. “Just a little bit more gold for you if you don’t ask questions. If my companion asks anything, just insist there’re no other rooms for the night. Please move an extra bed inside anyway, though, if it’s not too much trouble.”

She still looks a bit confused, but eyeing the extra gold pieces, she eventually hands him a key from behind a stack of books. “No questions, then, sir. You’ll have the second room on the right, and I’ll get another bed moved in soonest I can.”

“ _Thank_ you.” Merlin pats the back of her hand, and then crooks his finger forward. She leans in, curious, and then Merlin slips his hand inside his coat and shows her his pin. “I do mean no questions.”

The woman freezes. “I’m sorry, sir,” she stammers, expression fearful. “I had no idea you were with—”

Merlin shushes her, and closes the front of his coat, standing back and straightening it out. “It’s perfectly all right. Just keep that in mind.” He lowers his voice. “I don’t want to have to kill anyone else, madame, you understand.”

“Yes,” she says weakly, clutching at the edge of the counter for support.

“Good. Again, thank you.”

 Well, he’s set the stage for his trap, at least. Merlin takes a deep breath and walks back to where Arthur’s seated. Arthur stands up to support him when he leans against him. 

“Merlin?”

Waving him off, Merlin holds out the key, jangling from a big, rusty ring. “Got our room. Just the one room available though, it’s nearly full, today.”

Arthur keeps a hand on Merlin’s arm as he gets to his feet. “What? That’s unacceptable, it’d be too small. I’ll go talk to the lady in front.”

“It’s fine, Arthur,” Merlin insists, inwardly relieved because he’d already taken care of that possibility. “I’m rather fine with small spaces. Unless you object to sharing a room with me, of course.”

“No, it’s not that,” Arthur starts, and then looks at Merlin contemplatively. “You seem suspiciously accommodating of this situation.”

Merlin smirks, just a little. As expected, Arthur probably suspects that other thing, and has no inkling of Merlin’s real intentions. It’s sometimes quite startling how transparent Arthur is. He doesn’t quite mind it. Naïvety has a certain appeal. “I wouldn’t mind some company, Arthur,” he says, trying to ignore the minor stab of guilt settling over him at what he’s doing; preparing a set-up to catch Arthur unawares. “Not everything is about getting people into bed with me, you know?”

“I didn’t say that,” Arthur sputters.

“Sure you didn’t. But you were thinking it.” Merlin laughs, keeping his wineskin back on his belt and hooking an arm around Arthur’s shoulders. “I told her to get us another bed, anyway, since I was pretty sure you’d protest about wanting to protect your virtues from the reprobate you believe me to be.”

Arthur pulls Merlin’s arm tighter around his shoulders, and Merlin feels pleasantly surprised that his hands feel broad and warm against Merlin’s skin. “You _are_ a reprobate. So, which room is it?”

“Second on’ right,” Merlin slurs, and hands the keys over. “You seem to hold your drink better; you open it.”

They stumble up the stairs, and then they’re through the door. As the lady promised, Merlin notes, there are two small beds with fresh linen on, with one pressed up rather tightly against the wall near the window. 

“Well, this is cozy.” And it is, dark sheets soft to the touch, even if they’re a little threadbare at the edges. There’s a small fire flaring in the hearth, too, a few steps away from the edge of their beds. He shuffles over to the one near the window, gravitating to the nearest exit point out of habit, and curls his fingers in the material before he sits down. Merlin shrugs out of his coat, letting it fall softly to the edge of the bed. The opulent blue is a strange shade against the plain gray colours in the candlelight.

“Not too bad.” Arthur sets his satchel down on the hardwood floor, where it lands with a muffled thump. He turns to Merlin, a night shift already in hand, looking a little unsure. “Uh, is it all right if I—”

“Nothing I haven’t seen before,” Merlin says cheerfully, backing up against the windowsill and taking off his boots. “Ugh, buckles. Why, Arthur, you shy?”

Arthur laughs, and strides over to flick at Merlin’s ear. “I just didn’t want you to think I was, well, putting on a show or anything.”

“Ow.” He rubs at his ear, pouting. The alcohol is a little stronger than he expected, come to think of, and he’s feeling the hazy licks of it at his vision. Merlin’s got his training to thank for any clarity he still has. “Maybe I want you to put on a show for me. Ever think about that?”

“Voyeur.” Arthur just shakes his head, but Merlin thinks he can see his cheeks flushing from here in the dim light of the rim. He’s never actually seen any part of Arthur exposed, because they’d taken baths in the river separately the last few days, slept in separate tents, and he finds he is actually looking forward to it. 

“Don’t stop on my account.” Merlin looks on unabashedly. He watches the way Arthur pulls his outer coat off, sneaking a look at Merlin before he turns hurriedly to look the other way. Arthur’s comfortable-looking brown jerkin comes off next, and then he’s unlacing his off-white tunic, fingers fumbling as they catch in the strings.

“You’re looking, aren’t you?” Arthur says, his back still to Merlin. Merlin wonders if he knows his voice has dropped several notches, taking a huskier tone. 

“Always.” And that’s not actually a lie. Merlin takes off his own tunic, slipping on a loose cotton shirt, and resumes watching Arthur after. “Would you prefer me not to?”

“It’s slightly unnerving,” Arthur admits, but then he’s peeling the tunic off, revealing the tension in the set of his shoulders and the taut line of his back, golden in the soft light. It takes Merlin’s breath away for a bit.

The flickering of the fire just adds that to that otherworldly feeling to the atmosphere; if he didn’t know better, Merlin would’ve attributed that to Arthur’s magical talents. However, he’s been with a sorceress — their magic doesn’t really manifest physically, except when they’re casting and their eyes flash gold, for the briefest of moments. That, or if they’re really, really powerful, which the Guild has been insinuating about Arthur for some time.

Still, Merlin doesn’t think that’s the case. Arthur, for the curse he bears as a magic-wielder, is a very beautiful man, from the dusk-tawny colour of his hair to the sharp angles of his face and the broadness of his hands. 

He lets his thoughts wander for a moment, lingering on an image of Arthur in his mind’s eye, glowing with the vibrance of his magic, fire at his fingertips and the echo of it in his blue eyes. It’s a shame that he won’t be able to coax that out of Arthur, in all its glory, before he has to finish him off.

Merlin sighs. It’s still better than letting the Guild get to Arthur, at least. He takes another swig of wine from the skin, and lets the slow burn tickle at his throat. 

“Should probably stop drinking or you’ll wake up and feel something nasty in the morning. What’re you sighing about?” Arthur slips his shift on. 

“Nothing,” Merlin covers smoothly, but thinks he rather ruins that by hiccuping after. “Just thinking what a shame it is that such a body’s attached to that prattish exterior. Guess you can’t have everything. And I’ll drink whatever I bloody well please.”

“My personality is sparkling, Merlin.” Arthur leans over Merlin, and draws the drapes shut. His tunic is a little big, despite his frame, hanging loose off the edge of his right shoulder. Merlin finds himself wanting to bite at that jut of Arthur’s collarbone, so close to him.  “Of course, I don’t expect someone with such poor taste as you to appreciate it.”

“Sparkling,” Merlin repeats incredulously, turning his head slowly to look at Arthur in disbelief.

Arthur nods seriously at him, smiling crookedly. “Your loss.” He quickly snatches the wine skin from Merlin’s grip while Merlin’s distracted.

“Hey!” Merlin objects, but doesn’t grab for it. He’s had enough; the wine’s starting to get to him. Throwing his sheets to the side, he lies back on the down pillow, which smells faintly of lavender. “Maybe. I wouldn’t mind getting used to the view, though,” he says after a bit, looking up at the ceiling and smiling too, albeit to himself.

He can see Arthur bending over to put out the fire from the corner of his eye, before shaking his head. “I really should just ignore you.”

“You should, but you won’t.”

“What makes you so sure?” There’s a rustle of sheets, and then a whisper of wind as Arthur blows out the candle too. They’re in darkness then, completely pitch-black but for the little sliver of moonlight creeping through the little gap in the drapes. 

Merlin lets out a low chuckle. “You think about it.”

“About what?” A little too level, too nonchalant.

“Playing coy, are we?”

“I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

He shifts in his bed to get closer to the edge and to Arthur. “Admit it.”

The sound of Arthur turning under his sheets is rather loud in the room. 

“You like me watching, Arthur.”

A snort. “A little self-absorbed of you to say, Merlin.”

Merlin feigns an outraged gasp. “Excuse _me?_.”

“You're excused. Go to sleep.” They laugh a bit over it, and then their voices fade and drag into silence. Minutes pass, but Merlin knows Arthur’s still awake from the sound of his breathing, the way his chest rises and falls too quickly now that Merlin’s adjusted to his night-eyes.

He’s really come to enjoy Arthur’s company more than he expected, but this can’t continue. Sliding his knife out of its hilt with barely a whisper, Merlin holds it tightly in his hand as he regards Arthur’s restless form in the next bed.

Clenching his teeth, Merlin closes his eyes for a bit and takes in a deep breath, steadying his thoughts. The coolness of the chain around his neck reminds him of what a terrible thing he’s committed himself to doing, but he ignores it, firm in his resolution that it’s still better if he kills Arthur rather than letting him fall into the hands of the Guild. 

Distracted, Merlin slips and drops the knife onto a shelf just next to their beds, and winces at the muted sound. Arthur probably didn’t notice it.

Even so...

Merlin wants at least one thing out of this, for himself: Arthur. It seems selfish, the way he thinks of it, but he’s seen the way Arthur looks at him, seen how their little flirtatious dances have paid off.

Arthur wants him, too. And he really does like Arthur.

He tells himself it’s the wine, even though he isn’t drunk. He tells himself it’s his duty, even though it’s the furthest thing from his mind right now as he pulls his sheets back, stepping out on the cold floor with his bare feet and padding over to Arthur. 

He tells himself he’ll forget this, stepping into the little space of moonlight. It’s bright enough to see Arthur’s eyes widen as he gets on his bed, toes catching at the edge of it, their knees knocking together under the furs when he straddles Arthur.

He tells himself this doesn’t matter. Oh, but Merlin lies, lies, all the time —

“You stubborn ass,” he says, low, pinning Arthur’s hands to the side as he kisses him.

— even to himself.

* * *

There’s a sound of something clattering against wood near his bed, but Arthur can’t be sure. Knowing Merlin, he’s probably knocked something off, the klutz. He turns around to look down past the edge of his bed, but can’t see anything in the dim light of the room. 

When Merlin kisses him, though — all right, so Arthur’d be lying if he tells himself he hasn’t been thinking about this for a while. It’s very different: seeing Merlin without his shirt on after a bath, dark hair curling tantalisingly at his nape and seeing Merlin now, legs on either side of Arthur’s torso as he pulls his shirt off, pushing Arthur down against the bed.

Oh, he’s thought about it. He’s slipped into dreams of a hot mouth against his cock, long pale fingers trailing down his sides, long legs wrapped around his waist. Having Merlin mouth down his jaw now is surreal, and even though it’s good — unbearably good — he makes an effort to resist, because—

“Merlin,” he says, lips against Merlin’s cheek, the space between them full of their panting breaths and cut-off moans as Merlin rolls against him, as hard as Arthur is now. “Merlin, you’re drunk.” 

“‘mnot,” Merlin laughs against him, and those hot hands sweeping across his skin feel even better than he imagined, sneaking up Arthur’s shift. They just stay there, tracing patterns along his stomach up to his chest; too firm to be ticklish, but so, so light that it makes Arthur sigh and arch involuntarily in pleasure. “You’re the drunk one.”

 “Merlin,” he repeats, cupping Merlin’s face, brushing a thumb over the light stubble and up across those sharp cheekbones. “Wait.”

Merlin stills, looking at Arthur, one hand still buried in Arthur’s hair. He looks a bit wild like this, eyes wide. The devious expression he’d expected, but not the raw vulnerability as he takes in the rest of Merlin’s face.

He swallows, because all that intensity focused on him is like a punch to the gut. “Are you sure you want this?”

The heat’s building as Merlin shifts over him, nudging his legs apart with one knee, thigh sliding against his groin. Arthur closes his eyes for a moment, his breath stuttering, when Merlin leans down, his nose bumping against Arthur’s. “I do,” Merlin says, voice trembling a little, an undertone of uncertainty to it that Arthur can’t place. “Arthur, let me —”

“ _Merlin_ —”

“I need,” Merlin gasps out, a little desperate, when Arthur moves his hands up Merlin’s back, cradling the space between his neck and shoulder, pulling him down. The sheets are loud beneath them, getting in the way as they catch between limbs and legs, Merlin’s fingers fisting them next to his head when Arthur bucks up against Merlin. “I wanted you.”

“Past tense?” Arthur laughs, breathlessly, but he tries to keep Merlin in place, doesn’t want him to regret this if they go any further. Merlin deserves that, at the very least. “You’re not yourself. Maybe we should do this when you’re sober, if you still want —”

“Arthur,” Merlin bites out his name, exasperated, shaking out of Arthur’s grip as he draws his shoulders together and licks down the side of Arthur’s ear and jaw, making him shiver. “Stop being so noble about this. I’m not that drunk.”

“Oh, I beg to differ,” Arthur deadpans, but he can’t seem to help letting his head fall to the side for Merlin to kiss him there, the dip of his chin and right over to his collarbone. Merlin has a wicked mouth, just as he imagined he would.

“Thought about this sometimes, when I—” Merlin doesn’t finish the sentence, voice trailing off as he turns pink. He traces Arthur’s left side with the back of his knuckles before he grabs Arthur’s arse, pulling him up so he can grind against Arthur, a slow and punishing rhythm. “Wondered what it’d be like, with you.”

Arthur sits up a little and spreads his legs when Merlin tugs insistently at his loose trousers, and lets them be pulled off in a few jerky, stumbling movements. The idea of Merlin entertaining those thoughts about him, in turn, is quite overwhelming; the imagery, vivid, especially when he visualises Merlin biting down on the back of one hand as he comes all over his fingers, trying so hard to keep quiet next to Arthur’s tent. “Did you, now?”

“Uh-huh.” Letting out an impatient noise, the furs find themselves on the other side of the bed and sliding halfway to the floor when Merlin pulls them off Arthur, the cool air rushing at him. There’re little kitten licks down his chest where Merlin’s pushed his tunic up, hands palming his thighs as Merlin rests one on his shoulder, lying down flat on the bed so his face is level with Arthur’s cock.

“So now that you’re here, what do you think?” Arthur curls his fingers in the sheets, holding on tight, because Merlin’s brushing his lips just around Arthur’s cock now and locking his arms around Arthur’s legs, keeping him down. “Ah, fuck.”

“You’re quieter than I imagined,” Merlin says, pressing his fingers down, looking up at Arthur from beneath his messy fringe. “I’ll have to change that.”

Arthur tries for a smirk, even if the effect’s rather muted when he has to bite his lip after as Merlin tongues around the head of his cock, a flash of heat that’s a jolt to his system. “Bit presumptuous, aren’t we?”

Merlin gives him a dirty look. “I’ll have you know I’m pretty good at what I do, even if it’s been a while since I’ve— well.”

He dips his fingers lower down the back of Merlin’s neck, catching at the tinkle of the thin silver chains he knows are there. Their quiet conversation from earlier in the evening comes to mind, and the way Merlin had clutched at them; he never takes the necklace off. Arthur wonders if it’s a memento of his wife.

It makes him feel unexpectedly guilty, suddenly.

“Why me?” He finds himself asking, gently unfolding Merlin’s fingers from where they’re gripping him tightly on his thighs and pulling Merlin up towards him. Merlin makes a little noise of protest, but Arthur cups his face, rubs one of his thumbs over Merlin’s lips. 

Merlin laughs, but even in the darkness, it sounds different; like his heart isn’t quite in it. His hand covers Arthur’s on the bed, wet and warm, and he leans in to rest his forehead against Arthur’s. “Fishing for compliments?” 

“What if I am?” He isn’t, and suspects Merlin knows it too. Arthur _likes_ Merlin; he’s good company, he makes Arthur laugh, and he deserves better than just a quick tumble if he’s got heavier, darker thoughts in his mind. But Merlin’s drunk, and reckless, and troubled by something, so he’ll distract Merlin like this, at least for now. 

“You’re not like the others.” Merlin smiles to himself, and Arthur feels it against his cheek as Merlin wraps a hand behind Arthur’s neck, moving to bite lightly at Arthur’s lips. He sounds resigned. “They said you’re all the same, you know, but she— and you, you’re different. You’re not what they say you are, just because of magic—”

He stops Merlin then, and pushes in to kiss him thoroughly, taking Merlin in. Merlin’s a rough kisser, surprisingly dominating, but they fall into an odd rhythm of give-and-take when Merlin lets Arthur lick into him before moving back against him, demanding, challenging. Oh, but Arthur has _missed_ men; men who can be gentle and sweet but so punishing at the same time, because Arthur can let go around them the way he can’t with women. 

Merlin might be of a slighter frame than Arthur, but he’s lean and strong the way he pinned Arthur down and held him in place. Secretly, Arthur finds himself a lot more thrilled by that than he should; not that he’d ever admit that to Merlin.

“You too, y’know,” he says, between kisses, stopping and then dipping back in to steal yet another taste of Merlin’s mouth, because he can’t help it. “There’s something about you.”

It’s nice, kissing, and then Merlin’s mouthing up the side of his neck and his ear, tugging an earlobe between his teeth. “Yeah, Arthur?” He’s slow with it, sweet, like a tease, like it’s his first and last and only night with Arthur, like he wants to draw it out as long as possible to remember, to tuck into his memories. But it doesn’t have to be, if they continue together, if Merlin goes with him —

“Merlin, you really are a mystery.” He trails a path down Merlin’s spine with his nails, drawing them lightly enough against the skin to elicit a full-body shiver from Merlin above him, and presses his thumbs against the sharp hollows of those hipbones. “An infuriating, smart-mouthed mystery.”

“You’re terrible,” Merlin declares softly, almost fond, still trembling under Arthur’s ministrations. He gives little moans and gasps whenever Arthur shifts his touch, when Arthur kisses him somewhere sensitive around his neck. “You don’t know how to compliment at all.” 

“Compliments are overrated.” He likes taking Merlin apart like this, piece by piece, with his tongue and his teeth and his touch, have Merlin pant into his mouth when Arthur’s fingers get caught in the chains around Merlin’s neck. “I’d rather kiss that smart mouth.”

Merlin does kiss him then, one hand pulling at Arthur’s hair as he deepens the kiss, the other clutching at the wooden extension above them for support. He could get used to kissing Merlin. 

“But if you’re looking for compliments,” he says, pulling away and brushing his thumb along Merlin’s jaw, “You’re kind, and funny. Your jokes can be atrocious, but they make me laugh. And you, you have a really infectious smile.” He cups the side of Merlin’s face, and feels his heart break a little at the vulnerability that’s returned to Merlin’s eyes with a vengeance, despite the half-smile on Merlin’s face. “When you do smile, that is. But when you don’t, and when you think I’m not looking, you look so distant, and sad.”

“It’s just,” Merlin starts, but he doesn’t say anything more, just leans into Arthur’s touch. He gets that faraway look, the exact same one Arthur’d just mentioned, and sighs quietly. “I’ve done some terrible things.”

“Haven’t we all?”

Merlin takes in a shaky breath, eyes stricken. “Some deeds in this world cannot be forgiven.”

Arthur knows that all too well, and feels those words strike a chord within him. He still remembers the screams of his very first pursuers when he’d burned them alive, hand outstretched as he pulled Mordred behind him, the fire roaring up to the sky. They’d ran, and later that night, in the forest, Morgana had gone wordlessly to his tent and just held him in an unquestioning, tight embrace, the soft flowers in her hair emitting the familiar, comforting scent he’d come to associate with his sister.

It had been a long time before he’d stopped waking up gasping every night, those tortured cries still ringing in his ears. Sometimes, if he closes his eyes, he can still taste the smoke of flames and burning flesh in the air.

“You have to forgive yourself,” he says quietly, not sure if he’s talking about Merlin anymore.

For the first time ever, Merlin’s laughter is bitter to Arthur’s ears. “I don’t deserve it.”

He doesn’t know what to say to that, so he just wraps his arms around Merlin, around his back, pulling him closer to Arthur. Merlin slumps against him, and Arthur can feel him closing his eyes against Arthur’s shoulder, eyelashes tickling at his skin where they flutter shut. He breathes in, slow, and out, a steady rhythm where his chin’s tucked in the crook of Arthur’s neck. Arthur pulls his night pants back on for good measure, but leaves his shirt on the side of the bed.

They lie there, just like that, skin on sweat-slick skin on the messy furs strewn about the bed, and Arthur listens to the sound of Merlin’s breathing for a good while. He doesn’t relax, his body a tense line on top of Arthur’s, one hand splayed on Arthur’s chest and the other hanging off the side of the bed somewhere. Arthur shifts a little, lets his lips brush Merlin’s cheek, prickly from stubble.

“I don’t deserve you,” Merlin whispers, unhappily, but Arthur cuts him off, stroking his hair. It’s soft, if messier than usual.

“It’s fine, Merlin,” he says, in the lull. It pains him a little to see Merlin so torn about something, so haunted, but a part of him is happy that Merlin trusts him enough to confide in him. He lets himself entertain thoughts of a life beyond all this running with Merlin, just for a few seconds, wonders what _that_ would be like. Full of insults and throwing things at each other, maybe.

He smiles to himself, feeling sleepiness overcome him; Merlin’s warmth against him is ridiculously comforting, and he breathes in Merlin’s scent: some earthy wood, wine, and the tang of rusting silver.

Merlin stirs above him, and Arthur blinks himself back to consciousness. “Merlin?”

“Arthur.” The way Merlin says his name this time, urgent and full of emotion, has Arthur snapping to attention.  Whatever Arthur can see of him at this point under what little moonlight they do have is troubling; his lips are drawn together in a tight line, eyes bright. 

“What’s wrong?”

“I’m sorry.”

That’s when Merlin slams one of his arms to the bed, pins the other with his knee, and Arthur feels the bite of the knife at his throat.


	2. Chapter 2

Arthur freezes at the sensation, and at Merlin’s expression now in front of him: full of regret, but cold, so cold, the likes of which he’s never seen Merlin wear. The disbelief hits him first, before anything else. “What are you doing?” He manages, gritting his teeth and swallowing.

“You’re a smart one, Arthur. I’ll give you three guesses.”

He has never wished so hard to be proven wrong at this moment, but even Arthur knows it’s a futile thing as the seconds tick past, the sharp edge steady and dangerous at his neck. “All along?” He asks instead, feeling the disbelief ebb away and anger takes its place, a thick, roiling wave. 

It’s somehow worse that Merlin isn’t emotionless about the whole thing; Arthur thinks he’d prefer it if Merlin slits his throat without preamble, without putting on this act like it’s _hurting_ him to do this. It makes the betrayal cut so much deeper.

“Yes.” It’s clipped, but the one word reveals so much: that he’d been playing Arthur from the start, the moment he spread his arms wide open in invitation to a group of bandits, keeping a lookout for Arthur’s intervention from the corner of his eye. That Merlin had smiled at him, laughed with him, made him food and teased him, talked to him about his possibly fictional past, with this final goal in mind. "Arthur Pendragon," Merlin says, and Arthur closes his eyes. He's never told Merlin his last name. "Leader of the Resistance, the most powerful sorcerer in all of Albion, maybe even beyond."

Now he’s just angry at himself, so angry, because he should’ve fucking known better. Letting his guard down and allowing his emotions to take over — the Arthur of just months ago would’ve laughed at himself and socked his current self in the eye for such stupidity. And yet, here he is now at Merlin’s mercy, all because he’d put his trust in the wrong man, at the wrong time, and for all the wrong reasons.

“ _Yes?_ ” He repeats back at Merlin, feeling his own brand of bitter laughter bubble in his throat. Ah, he’d been so stupid. Arthur fishes for words to throw back at Merlin, to just lash out. He just needs an opportunity, just a moment of distraction to knock the knife away from him and make a run for it. “Is that all you have to say, after pretending you were my friend? Talking to me, like you cared?”

“Shut up,” Merlin says, calmly, but his grip on his knife wavers; Arthur can feel it when he trembles, the knife pressing into his skin.

Merlin is no amateur, Arthur can tell. But he’s deeply affected by something, and it’s distracting him. If anything, the fact that he hasn’t killed Arthur yet is very telling — something is making him hesitate. 

Viciously, Arthur wonders what will provoke Merlin most, not just distract him, but make him _hurt._ “So much effort,” he continues. “Making up elaborate lies to win my trust, getting me to feel bad for you. I fucking _liked_ you. To think I was worried about a random whore in a brothel gutting me, when it was people like _you_ I should’ve looked out for all along—”

“It’s for your own good.” He can hear the minute gritting of Merlin’s teeth, wonders if Merlin can in turn hear the frantic beating of Arthur’s heart, the rush of emotion. “They want you alive, but they can do that over my dead body.”

“And you killing me is better, how?” Arthur snaps. “At least if they catch me, or whatever, I can bide my time until my escape. The others are relying on me, I can’t disappoint them now!”

“Damn it, Arthur!” Merlin shouts. He’s never raised his voice at Arthur before, and it stuns him enough into silence. “The Guild’s not that complacent. You don’t know who they really are, or what they’re capable of!”

“Well, go on then,” Arthur says when he’s found his voice again, goading, tilting his head back further in silent invitation. It hurts just moving, because Merlin’s hand on his arm holding him down is surprisingly strong and the knee against his other arm is sharp and heavy. Arthur feels numb and drained, but strangely, not afraid. Not with Merlin. “You’ve got your golden chance here, you might as well. What’s stopping you?”

“I don’t want to do this.” And that vulnerability is back. Arthur wishes so much for that, at least, to be real, that Merlin wasn’t lying with every fiber of his being, but it’s likely he’ll never find out. “Arthur, I don’t want — I told you that you’re different. Sometimes, I think maybe you could—” He takes a single, shaky breath in his brief indecision, almost like he’s making up his mind. “No. You know _nothing_. It’s true that they don’t want to kill you, but the despicable things they’ll do to you are beyond anything you can possibly imagine. You’d _wish_ they killed you. Trust me, it’s better this way.”

“I can’t save Morgana if I’m dead,” Arthur says fiercely, willing Merlin to just fucking _understand_ , because if he’s still hesitating even now, there’s a good chance he’s probably wanting to be persuaded, to be thwarted. For all that the assassins with the Guild appear to be dispassionate, cold killers, they’re human too, no matter how hard they try to seem otherwise. 

Merlin may have gotten to Arthur, but similarly, he can see how _he’s_ gotten to Merlin. The very fact he’s still alive adds weight to his theory. “Merlin, there’s always another way. There has to be another way.” He doesn’t miss the brief flicker of fear and confusion on Merlin’s face, and wonders if, just if — “You weren’t lying about your wife, were you?” He says, hope in his throat, throwing this to a gamble. “I need to save other magic users, too, to stop this oppression. This madness. Merlin, let me go.”

It’s the wrong thing to say.

“No, I wasn’t,” Merlin snarls, every word laced with venom. He’s breaking then, losing control, and it’s terrifying for Arthur to watch. “When they got her — it would’ve been a mercy if I’d killed her first!”

There’s no convincing Merlin, then. Arthur shuts his eyes, and fists the sheets tightly. Perhaps it won’t hurt. Perhaps it’ll be over in a flash. 

The really pathetic thing about this? He can’t bring himself to hate Merlin for this, not even now.

Drunken laughter from outside, sudden and sharp, shatters their tense atmosphere. He snaps his eyes open in time to feel Merlin pulling away in surprise, his hold on Arthur faltering, and he seizes his chance.

It’s a split-second opportunity, of course, because Merlin realises his mistake the moment he makes it and shifts, the blade nicking the side of Arthur’s throat. The sting of it makes Arthur hiss; it might’ve drawn blood, but it doesn’t feel like anything too serious. He yanks at Merlin’s hand holding the knife and gives a single, cruel twist while he struggles to get out from beneath Merlin. It’s not enough to injure, let alone break, but it’s enough to inflict enough pain that Merlin cries out, letting go of the weapon. The knife drops on the bed, hilt-first, bounces off the soft sheets to clatter noisily on the floor.

Merlin’s obviously not a Guild assassin for nothing; his recovery is quick, head shooting up when he notices Arthur clambering over to the window, hand tight on some of his crucial belongings. He’s over to the window in seconds, climbing onto his bed with his hand outstretched just as Arthur’s stepped up to the windowsill, and he _grabs_ , fingers catching at the edge of Arthur’s arm.

Trying to shake him off, Arthur hisses out a spell in his panic, hoping it works. It does, and he knows the second that Merlin sees the gold in his eyes when Merlin loosens his grip in shock. Arthur swings his arm in a sweeping, fierce motion, his magic lashing out, throwing Merlin against the wall of the room with a sickening thud.

He forces himself to not look back, even when Merlin groans in pain, and looks down at the ground below, wet from a light rainfall that must’ve happened earlier in the night. An intake of breath, two, and then Arthur jumps, reaching inside wildly for his magic to cushion his fall. He reaches out a hand first, his magic conjuring a billowing gust of wind that whips about him like a blanket, slowing his descent. 

Arthur hits the ground running. 

It feels cold, the wind nipping at his skin through his thin clothes. He doesn’t really know where he’s going in this massive city, with its twists and turns and many little dead ends, stopping abruptly in alleys and swathed in darkness and fear. 

While he mindlessly runs on, thoughts race through his head. Are there others from the Guild in the city, with them? Merlin’s missive to subdue and retrieve Arthur was probably a solo mission; he would’ve given the game away if he had other troops lurking around them at any given time. No, Arthur decides, definitely alone. It would explain him working to gain Arthur’s trust, to catch him unawares.

It doesn’t set his heart at ease, though, because he wouldn’t put anything past the Guild. What if they anticipated this, or if they’d not trusted Merlin in the first place? His earlier brush with Merlin’s set him on edge, and he tries not to see movement in every shadow that falls across his path.

No one really spares Arthur a glance. The city is quiet but for the muted chatter of those still awake and trawling its otherwise empty streets; a few beggars look up dispassionately as he runs past them, huddling closer together under ratty sheets, and some ladies of the night call out plaintively, “What’s the hurry?”

He needs to find one of the city exits. The inn they’d ended up staying in had been located around the middle of the city, locked dead centre in the middle of a maze of stones and bricks. Honestly, he’d expected what was effectively nearly a huge square-shaped patch of land from the outside to be more organised, but he’s the frustrated living witness to how it decidedly isn’t.

It occurs to him now how vulnerable he is, after making the unwise decision to trust someone who’d seemed different, seemed a little wonderful. And now that the truth about Merlin is out, well. He slows down to a walk, tucking his hands in his loose pockets, feet falling wetly on cobblestones. It’s started drizzling again, must have since he first left Merlin back at the inn, and when he tentatively touches his hair, it comes away damp at the ends.

Sighing, Arthur looks up at the sky, black with the churning gray of angry clouds, as the rain keeps falling, almost like it’s reflecting his mood. It’s getting heavier by the minute, so when Arthur takes a left turn into what looks like a warehouse district, he ducks under the nearest available cover for shelter. He needs to get out of the city, but if it’s going to pour, he might as well take a short rest before getting back on the road. 

Shivering, he cups his hands, breathing into his palms before he rubs them together frantically for warmth. Winter is a long way away, but the rain’s got his shirt clinging to him, the cold of the air seeping in.  

He pushes the drooping cloth of the tent out of his way, sits on one of the many haphazardly strewn containers on his end — probably unwanted cargo thrown about by some mischievous youths playing pranks on the hapless workers when they weren’t looking — and finally takes a moment to really look around, drawing one knee up to his chest. 

Wooden boxes are everywhere, stacked in teetering towers with crests from the different cities and kingdoms, against the misty background of old, menacing-looking buildings. It’s eerie here, with a lingering kind of silence that hangs after the brief echo of rain trickling down to the ground.

Resting an arm against his knee, he massages his temples, letting out a breath he hadn’t realised he’d been holding. Arthur had already planned out what to do while he was on the boat over; his plans are still on track, for the most part, but he’s so shaken by what’s happened with Merlin it’s almost like it’s thrown them into jeopardy. 

“Get a grip, Arthur,” he says aloud, to the indifferent _drip-drip_ of the rain. The path he’d traced with his map is still fresh in his mind, when he’d outlined a way to the Red Peaks, where his uncle Agravaine resides. He remembers little of his uncle, really, but recalls him as a tight-lipped man of a stoic disposition, a dark-haired shadow next to the radiant beauty of his mother when Ygraine had taken Arthur and Morgana to visit him there. He’d stopped writing to all of them before Ygraine died, still angry that Ygraine had refused to move back to the Red Peaks with him, the land of her birth she was Lady of, even after Uther had passed away. His mother and his uncle had had a blazing row before she left, and they'd never corresponded again.

Still, needs must, and if Arthur can get any assistance from his uncle at all, if he can help Arthur get the word out there to strike back against the Guild or provide troops for their cause — it sounds foolhardy, but it must be done. They were _kin_ , surely Agravaine would be sympathetic to their plight. 

Those with magic can’t keep running forever, and above everything else, Arthur fiercely believes that nobody should live in fear for a gift they were born with, because no one chooses magic. 

If magic chooses you, if you _are_ magic, you have to do right by it. And many people do, truly; they heal, they serve, they bring crops and blossoms out of the stubborn grasp of the earth for the benefit of the people around them. Most only really lash out and commit crimes out of necessity, out of fear, and out of spite, as a way to protest their treatment in the hands of the Guild, and the higher powers that encourage it. It is but a weapon, like anything else; an axe, a diamond-encrusted dagger, or a staff. The wielder decides the weapon’s fate, and what it is to be used for: for bad, or for good.

Call him a hopeless idealist, but Arthur believes in the good of people and how they would form a better world, should this pan out. A society full of acceptance, celebrating the diversity of both magical and non-magical individuals alike, free of discrimination and hate.

The Red Peaks are quite a distance away; Arthur might have to steal a horse in the next town. 

He’s looking absently down the streets when he sees it, freezing when he notices: a too-dark shadow tucked against a wall, just around the sharp corner of an alley. It’s still, but in the muted blackness of the shadows around him, it stands out like a beacon.

Arthur doesn’t need to look closer to know it’s the silhouette of a man.

The fear’s back, creeping down his neck like the chill of the rain, along with the exhaustion. Another assassin? Someone like Merlin? Or people from the Guild, who followed them at Merlin’s behest? 

An image of Merlin’s guileless smile flashes through his mind, and Arthur forcibly shoves it aside. 

He stretches, trying to keep it as casual as possible, trying to act like he’s not noticed his observer. Keeping a hand behind his back, he draws one of his smaller knives, hoping he doesn’t give anything away from both his movement and sound, and levitates it in the loose circle of his fingers, tilting it at the angle of that shadow.

Because he’s looking for it, Arthur sees it when the man in the shadow shuffles on his feet, almost imperceptibly, and strikes. He spreads his fingers wide, and the knife flies in a lightning-quick line at the shadow.

The man falls out of the alley, crying out in pain, and Arthur’s there in a flash. The rage comes out of nowhere; a dark, roiling thing that pushes him to tighten around the man’s throat with his magic. Gasping in fear and trying to breathe, the man collapses to his knees, clawing at his neck where an invisible force is squeezing at him.

Arthur holds out his hand, palm up, and claws his fingers tighter abruptly. There’s a choked out yelp from where the man’s kneeling before him, his face turning blue.

“I recognise your uniform,” he says, with shaky composure, looking down at the Guild hunter with disdain. Arthur’s done with surprises for the night, and he’s just had about enough of all this. “How many of you are here? Answer me truthfully, and I won’t have to hurt you. Much.”

“If you really must know, more than you think.”

He’s already turning around before that other voice finishes its sentence, his hand out with a spell ready on his lips, but Arthur gets knocked down when somebody delivers a blow to his head.

“Fuck,” he swears, because hell, if that doesn’t _sting_. Arthur claps a hand to the back of his head, and even through the pain and his slightly blurred vision, there’s no mistaking the dark wetness smeared across his fingers. 

The hunter he’d incapacitated earlier recovers quickly, scrambling to his feet and drawing out his weapon unsteadily to point it at Arthur as he lies on his side on the ground, looking up hazily at his attackers. “We’re apprehending you, in the name of the Guild.”

“You can go fuck yourselves.” It’s all bravado, and Arthur knows it even as he gets up, the pain soaring to a loud roar in his ears. He dimly registers four, five, no, _six_ people, and thinks that this is one of his unluckiest days yet. Still, there’s no way he’s going to roll over and bare his throat for them to sink their shoddy fangs into like a defeated wolf.

The woman who’d hit him laughs, a low, rich sound. She's also one of the Guild elite, her uniform markedly different from the others. “So gallant in the face of despair. You know, even if you think you can take us out, we’ve got many others coming. There’s no way you can escape this time.”

“That’s what you thought the last few times,” he shoots back, stalling. “And we made it out fine, didn’t we?”

Shrugging, she folds her arms, her expression calculating. “Your numbers dwindled, Pendragon. You brought misfortune everywhere you went, you and your sorcerers, involving innocents’ lives left and right. And you couldn’t even defend the last of your little group, could you? Your sister’s presence with us says it all.”

“Shut up.” It’s true, and it pains him that he knows that, but he won’t admit it to these vipers. The guilt had haunted them for ages, when they shuffled tiredly from location to location, weak and seeking shelter, only to find out time and time again that they’d been discovered, others they’d come into contact with killed.

She smirks, knowing she’s landed a hit, and pulls out a length of rope and a strange artifact from a satchel on her waist. The blood-red artifact seems to contain shadows that move within it, the shades of its colour swirling against the intricate runes carved onto its glass surface. Once the woman pulls out the stopper from it, the artifact begins to emanate a foul aura so strong, Arthur recoils almost instantly, feeling like he could choke on it. 

“Don’t worry.” Holding out the artifact with both hands, she lets go. Instead of falling to the ground, it floats, and dark tendrils seem to creep out from within as its runes begin to glow. “We won’t kill you, you’re too powerful for that. Hold him!” 

“What?” He steps back and tries to summon his magic. It eludes him, slipping out of his grasp, and he growls in frustration, feeling angry tears prickling at the corners of his eyes that it’s failing him now, when he needs it most. Too quickly, he finds himself down on his knees against the cobbles with his arms pulled behind him and someone’s hand on his neck as he’s shoved forward. The artifact’s glowing even brighter now with an eerie scarlet glow, the dark tendrils extending towards him as the dark aura of malevolence grows thicker around him, cloying and sickly and _wrong_. He tries wrenching away from the hold they have on him, but they’re firm and unyielding. “No, no, no, _no_ —”

“We wouldn’t have needed to resort to this if you’d just come quiet.” She sounds almost sympathetic, but there’s nothing kind in her eyes. When the tendrils creep onto his skin, coarse and cold, Arthur wants to scream. His magic is being sucked out through his skin, with a slow and insistent force, and the unnatural pulling of it from his body throws him. 

“God have mercy.” Her voice is quiet now, in something like begrudging awe. “I’ve never seen someone with so much magic, it’s... the rumours are real.”

Arthur opens his mouth, but finds the shock of the magic being siphoned from him weakening him, leaving him reeling and disorientated. Every part of his body is rebelling against it, trying to contain his magic; the pull of his magic in two different directions feels like it’s going to tear him apart. 

His captors’ hold on him never wavers, but he wouldn’t be able to fight them now even if he tried; they’re the ones holding him up, now. If they let go, he’d crumple to the ground, face first.

“Why are you... doing this?” He manages, connecting his words with some effort. Why did they want to drain him, or even take him away, for that matter? He still didn’t understand. If they hated magic users so much, they could just kill him, exterminate him like people do with tainted animals during a horrific plague. By all accounts, it doesn’t make sense.

As expected, he gets no reply. His eyelids droop against his will, his strength to stay conscious fading by the minute as his vision begins to swim, his magic growing fainter like the afterechos of a whisper in a cave.

It’s not supposed to end like this, he thinks resignedly, as the pain from the siphoning dulls to a sharp heat in his body and mind. It’s not.

Arthur’s so out of it, he doesn’t register them letting go of him until he does fall and feels the cold of the wet tiles against the side of one cheek. He opens his eyes blearily, seeing his attackers pace in front of him, their hissed conversations an inaudible hum to his ears.

His magic’s still _inside_ him, a distant and discordant thrum that’s locked, somehow, and out of his reach. He’s well and truly fucked this time.

At least he’ll probably get to see Morgana before they kill him.

After a while that could be anywhere from a few seconds to hours, someone seems to be calling his name. It’s hard to tell, with the buzzing of dark magic still lingering around him, blocking his senses, but it’s familiar. 

So he’s moved on to hallucinations. Great. 

He tries to clench his fist, his fingers shaking from the effort. When he looks up from his hand to his surroundings, a body falls down next to him with a thump, arm falling in front of Arthur's face.

It's the man he'd nearly strangled earlier, mouth slack, and very much dead. Getting to his elbows, Arthur takes in the sight in front of him now, almost surreal: men dropping one by one like flies. It's a kind of chaos that Arthur can't put a name to, the way they open their mouths in silent screams as life leaves their bodies, the blood soaking the front of their pristine uniforms. 

In the middle of it all, striking down his foes with impossible precision, is Merlin. Merlin, with two knives in either hand, disarming each attacker one by one, knocking their weapons out of their hands and slitting their throats or gutting them in clean, focused twists. He moves like a dancer, quick and trained movements letting him parry and evade. Arthur's really angry with himself now for not seeing it before, and reluctantly impressed at how good an actor Merlin is, playing the clumsy fool around Arthur when he can move like that, like a falcon honing in for its kills.

Merlin's swift, and terribly skilled; his enemies are dead before they hit the ground.

"You can't have him," Merlin says in a deadly whisper that carries, pushing his knife into the stomach of the woman who'd commanded this band of men to capture Arthur. She clutches at the front of Merlin's tunic, fear and loathing mingling in her wild eyes, blonde hair hair askew, the red on her fingers blending with the red of the cloth. "Enough is enough."

"She won't forgive you," the woman rasps, fisting her fingers tighter into the folds. "This will be the last transgression she'll tolerate, _Emrys._ "

"Stop calling me by the name _she_ gave me," Merlin snaps, pulling back, but he drives the knife just a bit deeper, the blood pulsing out over his pale fingers. "I'm not of the Guild anymore."

The woman laughs wetly, blood trickling down the side of her lips, too. "It's not just what we call you in correspondence, you ignorant fool. It's your title. Your legacy." She coughs, slumping against Merlin, her hands falling  to her sides as her strength leaves her. Her eyes flick to Arthur's, and holds his gaze.  "Destined to come to an end. There's so much you don't know about yourself and what's to come."

Merlin steps aside, and pulls his knife out with a clean, vicious yank before he turns to Arthur, sheathing it. Her body lands with barely a sound, her eyes still open and accusing where she'd looked at him. 

"What are you playing at?" Arthur shuffles backwards, too weak to stand, and he sees the levitating artifact from before with his magic in just behind him from the corner of his eye. It’s rested quietly on the ground now, the shadowy tendrils from before locked and settled within, perhaps satisfied at the offering of Arthur’s magic. Strangely, it doesn’t feel hostile nor dark now, but Arthur’s still wary of it.

Perhaps if he broke it, though, or got to it...

Merlin had been moving slowly towards Arthur, but he stops when he hears Arthur’s words. "I had to," he starts, then holds his fists at his sides, as if frustrated. "I chased you at first, yes, but when I saw them closing in on you with that—" Merlin gestures at the artifact, grimacing, "I lost control. I couldn't let them take you. They're monsters, worse than the ones they hunt like animals."

"Then why did you _help_ them?" He just doesn't understand. "You're with them, aren't you? You're certainly no friend of sorcerers, if you were out for me because of the magic I possess."

Merlin throws his hands up. "By no choice of mine. I thought that if I accepted the missive, I could work with accomplishing the goal on my own terms. And better a quick death than what they would've done to you if they got hold of you."

“You keep saying that. It’s not a certainty.” Merlin’s expression is stormy, and his hand twitches as if to reach for his dagger, so Arthur hastily resumes their little exchange as he continues moving back, taking care to block the view of the artifact from Merlin’s distracted view. “It doesn’t have to be my fate to die at their hands, Merlin. And this oppression, all this running... it’s gone on long enough.” He can almost touch the artifact now. “I’m but one person now, but I have allies, and I have a plan. I have a dream which I need to realise to help other innocents who have magic and free them from this age of misery.” 

Reaching out behind him, he feels a fierce surge of triumph when his hand bumps against the cool, ridged edge of the artifact. It heats against his touch when he clasps his fingers around it, as if his magic trapped inside is responding to him, resounding and echoing what little power still remains within him. Arthur takes a deep breath, looking pleadingly at Merlin as he tightens his hold, ready to hurl it when Merlin makes his move, but hoping he won’t have to. If only he could get Merlin to change his mind. “You said I was different, and you’re right, I am. I will change everything, if you give me a chance. Please.”

The sharp slide of Merlin’s knife as he draws it out of its red-leathered sheathe is impossibly loud, and Merlin shakes his head as he twirls it deftly around his hands, as if to himself. “We can’t defy fate, not like this. What you’re proposing is impossible.”

“What they are doing is unforgivable,” Arthur says, in turn. “Curse or not, that’s no call to eradicate those with magic when they’ve done no wrong. People, just like you and me, who simply want to live their lives. People who were born with the unfortunate gift of magic in these turbulent times. They deserve better. We deserve better.”

“Arthur.” Merlin says his name like he’s afraid, like it’s the one thing grounding him, and his expressive face that Arthur’s come to know so well is contorted in uncertainty. “There’s no way to escape them. I was one of them, I _know._ That they’ve dispatched me, drawing me out from my disgrace to hunt you down, is proof that they’re done toying with you. If I don’t kill you, they’ll kill me first, and then send someone else. And then another, if that other hunter doesn’t get you.”

“So you think you might as well end all this now?” Arthur laughs, softly. “I don’t know what kind of indoctrination they put you through, but Merlin, that’s... pessimistic.”

“I’m being realistic. Do you think this is a game?!”

“Of course not. Don’t be absurd.” He meets Merlin’s eyes, wishing he could read him, and the next words are out of his mouth before he can help them. “If they’ll kill you for not killing me, then... run with me.”

Merlin doesn’t gape, but he does blink incredulously at Arthur, staying very still. “I beg your pardon?”

 “You heard me — ”

“I did, and you’re completely out of your mind.” 

“No.” Yes, actually, he is, but he’s not going to agree with Merlin out loud. “Help me. Come with me. I’ll watch your back if you watch mine, and I’ll defend you from the Guild to the death.”

There’s an almost comic silence filling the space between them. It would be funnier if not for the severity of the situation and the fact that Merlin’s probably still contemplating to put Arthur out of his misery like a hunting hound that’s wounded beyond all point of recovery. 

“You’re mad,” Merlin says at last, looking like he’s fighting back a smile, even if the sadness hasn’t left his eyes. “Ridiculous, outrageous, and completely, utterly mad.”

His heart leaps, the hope washing over him despite himself. “Merlin?”

Merlin holds a hand up, and walks towards Arthur. “Running? If only things were so easy.”

“Don’t do this.” The artifact glows hotter under his touch as Merlin advances like a wolf, and Arthur’s breaks into a cold sweat. 

“ _For those who practice magic violate the cardinal rules of nature, of Man and of God._ ” Merlin pulls his knife back in a swift movement, regarding Arthur intensely. “I’ve never believed what they said about magic users burning the brightest in a fire, their cursed blood lighting pyres like the best sylvanwood never will. And maybe, just maybe, a part of me has never truly believed they deserved what came to them, even if I forced myself to just to keep myself sane. To convince myself I was taking lives for the greater good, that I wasn’t a murderer.” A pause. “But I am. I can’t do anything about it. I can’t be forgiven. Now, though, Arthur, now... I think I can at least do you this one favour. You’ll see.”

“It’s not a fucking favour if you kill me!” He shouts, not even sure if Merlin’s actually listening to him. “And I won’t _see_ if I’m dead!”

“Goodbye, Arthur.” Merlin’s smile then is wistful, and he really isn’t listening to Arthur, who really doesn’t want to kill Merlin if he can help it. The knife in Merlin’s hand glimmers as he leans down, hand sliding tight over Arthur’s shoulder, and right now, Arthur has to...

He has to live.

In the moment where Merlin brings the knife down, time seems to slow around them, and his reality is reduced to the downward sweep of Merlin’s arm and the thundering of his heartbeat in his ears. Arthur utters a guttural cry, straining against Merlin’s hold as he smashes the artifact against the side of Merlin’s head.

It falls to the ground in pieces, the handle still in Arthur’s clenched hand, and then the dark aura that’d petrified him before is back in full force, exploding into the air, washing over him and flooding the immediate vicinity with a frigid, nauseating coil of magic. He whimpers from the torment of it, throwing an arm over his eyes and willing it to go away, even as the shadows creep over them both, roaring and whipping up a whirlwind from the suddenness of their release.

They’re caught in the eye of this vicious magical storm, and he can’t see a thing for the wind that lashes violently around them. Merlin slumps against him, disorientated, his knife dropping to the ground while he clutches a hand to the side of his head, shaking from the blow. His arm drops to his side after a bit as he slips into unconsciousness, chest rising and falling unsteadily.

Arthur takes in great sobbing breaths, fighting for air as the darkness of the magic chokes him, and he reaches out almost blindly for his magic, so lost without it. He’d broken the artifact that’d trapped it, surely it would return to him any time now —

Almost as suddenly as it’d began, the wind stops, and the shadows disperse, bleeding and escaping abruptly into the darkness of the night around them, into shadows of buildings and corners. What remains after are strange hues of light and colour that hang in the air, pulsing with the familiarity of Arthur’s magic. Now that he can breathe again, he opens his arms, willing for it to return. 

His magic washes over him and Merlin like a golden liquid, enveloping them both in warmth. It’s there at the edge of his consciousness, the call of his magic, but no matter how hard Arthur tries, it eludes him. 

And then, Merlin wakes up, stiffening against Arthur. The magic blanketing them seems to collapse in on itself when that happens, stopping for several heartstopping moments before a wind picks up again, threads of magic woven with glowing light and fire. 

Strangely, Arthur’s first instinct is to shield Merlin from it. He digs his fingers tight into Merlin’s upper arms and roughly pulls him closer, watching as the magic builds and burns, forming a bright pillar around them that reaches the sky. 

“What’s happening?” Merlin asks, uneasy. Runes begin to light up around them both on the ground, lines and symbols of the past that look nothing like what Arthur’s seen in his spell books, shimmering red and gold and growing outwards, illuminating the area. 

The flood of light _drops_ suddenly like the crash of a waterfall, the magic zeroing in on Merlin like arrows. The force of it makes Merlin fall backwards, crying out when the light envelops him. 

“Merlin!” He reaches out, thinking to pull Merlin out of it, but he’s thrown back by an unseen force. A barrier’s formed around Merlin, a shimmering thing that sparks when he touches it. Arthur slams both his fists against it, calling out Merlin’s name again and again like a mantra as the control of his magic slips even further away from him than ever before. 

Merlin crumples to the ground, his hand clutching at his chest, face lit with the eerie golden light from the runes. “Arthur,” Merlin says pleadingly between gasps, eyes squeezed shut as if in pain. “It hurts — ”

When he does open his eyes, they’re glowing gold.

The light builds brighter and brighter, finally culminating in a loud burst of light. When it clears, Arthur lowers his arm from where he’d shielded his eyes, and sees Merlin on the ground. The strange runes have somehow imprinted themselves on the cobblestones, burnt shades of sienna on cool gray.

There’s a sense of inherent _wrongness_ in the air. Arthur flexes his fingers, feeling imbalanced, when it hits him. As his suspicion mounts, he says the first few spells that come to his mind, stretching out his hand and desperately wishing to be wrong. His magic doesn’t answer his call. 

There’s no trace of his magic left in him even now, not like before. Even when the artifact had drained him dry, he had still felt the weak thread connecting him to what was left of his magic inside him. 

His magic is gone.

“No.” He tries again, tries casting a small fire, tries to feel his magic rearing up as it does even before it fails. Nothing. Not a wisp of magic. "No!"

The light from before had shrouded Merlin, before it disappeared. He turns to Merlin, the niggling idea at the back of his mind. Impossible, but what if his magic had mistakenly gone to Merlin instead of returning to him?

Arthur will have to find a way to get it back. But first, there’s Merlin.

He walks over and falls to his knees before Merlin, cupping his face. While he’s not forgiven Merlin for his betrayal, Arthur _is_ worried; probably more than he’d like to admit, with the cold fear that’d spiked through him when he saw Merlin still and unmoving. It’s confusing as all hell, but he’ll sort that out later. Merlin stirs, half-lidded gaze not quite all there as he takes Arthur in. 

“Can you hear me?” Arthur asks urgently, smoothing Merlin’s hair back from his forehead. “Are you all right?”

“Sire,” Merlin rasps, flickers of light dancing just beneath his eyelids as he lifts a hand to brush at Arthur’s cheek.

That one word shakes Arthur, as he experiences an unexpected sense of vertigo crashing over him. “What?”

“You came back to me.” Merlin’s slow smile is warm. There’s no trace of the hostility from before, the fear, the anger. It’s as though he’s a completely different person. 

“Merlin,” Arthur says gently, after a moment, cradling him. His cheeks are burning, and when Arthur presses the back of his knuckles to Merlin’s forehead, he feels feverish to the touch, too. “You’re disorientated. I don’t think you know what you’re saying.”

He leans into Arthur’s touch, then, like a cat. After what’s just happened, that’s when Arthur knows something is really wrong. “At last,” Merlin murmurs, turning his cheek to Arthur’s palm, his eyes fluttering shut.

“Hey.” Arthur nudges Merlin, but he’s fallen into a deep sleep, breaths coming interrupted and shallow where he lies in Arthur’s arms.

It’s almost sad how quickly Arthur makes his decision after that. Sighing, he gets up and hefts Merlin onto his back, pulling Merlin’s arms down around his neck. He can’t leave Merlin like this, not with the Guild possibly after them both. If his magic is with Merlin, now, he’ll have to try and reclaim it later. Chances are he’ll need Merlin alive to do that. 

Merlin mumbles something unintelligible behind him in his unconsciousness, tucking his chin against the curve of Arthur’s neck, nose just brushing the wound he’d left earlier. Arthur grits his teeth, the phantom feeling of that sharp knife edge still lingering right there.

He’d thought he could kill Merlin before if he needed to, end his life before he ended Arthur’s, but he’s not so sure anymore. One thing’s for sure, though: this can’t go on, and if Merlin can’t be reasoned with, Arthur will have to do something about it. Hopefully, he won’t have to.

Fleet of foot and deadly, Merlin had fought like a veteran, someone who’d been hunting for a long time and did it well. And yet, here he is, snuffling and vulnerable on Arthur’s back, looking impossibly young while he sleeps. It’s difficult, reconciling that ruthless if reluctant killer with this man, a boy in so many ways still.

Maybe he’ll find it in him to forgive Merlin, eventually, but never the Guild. Not for doing this to him, to Morgana, and Merlin. To other sorcerers and magic users, and others around the kingdom affected by their crazed idea of clearing their world of magic. 

Fuck everything. He’ll deal with it in the morning.

* * *

 

Merlin remembers drowning, or something like it.

He’s treading water, trying to breathe with the heavy weight he’s clinging on to with all his might, and what little light he’s seeing in the water that he’s reaching out to is muted. The cool chains of metal links are slipping from his grasp as he struggles to hold on to it, to the person he’s trying to save, but Merlin’s determination is stronger.

The desperation pumps his blood through him in a frenzy, driving him closer and closer to the surface, where he can almost taste the air.

He wakes up to complete and utter silence.

When the fireplace of the room in the inn he’d gotten for himself and Arthur yesterday — was it yesterday? It feels like he’s been asleep for decades —  swims into view, cheerful and warm, it confuses him for a moment. He sits up in his own bed, near the window, and winces when the blinding sunlight falls on his sweaty face. A damp cloth falls off his head onto his sheets, and Merlin stares stupidly at it for a moment.

His body feels different. Something feels off, like he’s changed. But whatever it is, it feels like this should’ve been what he’s feeling all along. This undercurrent of certainty, of power.

Had it all been a dream?

“No, it wasn’t.”

So he’d spoken aloud. He turns, and the sight of Arthur just watching him like that like a hawk unnerves Merlin, leaves him feeling like a canine with raised hackles. 

Snatches of what had happened before flash through his mind, impossibly vivid and in reverse: images of Arthur reaching out towards Merlin, shouting something that Merlin can’t hear over the sound of the magic devouring him, Merlin losing control and knocking down all the Guild pursuers who’d hurt Arthur, and then that last stricken expression of Arthur’s face when Merlin had pinned him down with the intention to kill him. A quick glance down at himself in just his nightwear reveals that, of course, he’s been disarmed.

Arthur continues looking at him with a wary expression, his fingers linked tightly together. He looks like he hasn’t slept much at all, although his tired blue eyes are still lance-sharp under the mess of his hair. 

“How long have I been asleep?” He rubs his face with one hand, wiping at the sweat and feeling the heat of his face. That explains the cloth.

“The better part of a day.” Arthur gestures to the window. “Bright afternoon light.”

It’s all terribly awkward. 

“You know the truth now,” Merlin says, hating the way it comes out. The disappointment in Arthur’s eyes burns, almost as badly as the disappointment Merlin feels in himself for not completing the job, but he’s also relieved all the same that he failed. Even if he can’t quite put his finger on why.

 “I do.”

Arthur can be cutting when he’s curt. Who would’ve guessed? It shouldn’t hurt Merlin, but it does. “So why save me? Would’ve saved you a whole lot of trouble if you’d left me there to die.” 

“Believe me, I asked myself that same question more times than you think. One major reason, though, is that you’ve got something that belongs to me, and I need it back.” Arthur’s lips curl.

He doesn’t get it. “What?”

“Feel any different?” Standing up, Arthur walks over to the fireplace and pokes at it, until the flame burns a bit brighter. It’s sunny outside, but if Merlin shifts a little too far to one side, he can feel the cool wind sneaking past the edges of the shut window.

Merlin hesitates, wondering why he _does_ feel different. It’s nothing he’s ever felt before. “Yes, but I don’t know why.”

Arthur looks at him like he’s contemplating something, before he takes a clay mug from near the fireplace. He hands it to Merlin. “I mixed some hot wine in with some oranges. That might make you feel better.”

Regarding the really sudden change in topics and Arthur’s blank face with suspicion, Merlin makes to take it, never taking his eyes off Arthur. “Thank you? I suppose.”

“You’re welcome.” Arthur drops the mug.

Cursing loudly, Merlin knows he’ll never catch it in time. He makes a futile attempt to, anyway, reaching out almost wildly with curved palms as the hot liquid begins to splash over the sides and something surges within him at the misplaced panic.

He braces himself for the sound of shattering clay and for the mixture to spill everywhere, but the liquid never hits the floor, and neither does the mug. There’s no shattering sound, no liquid splashing all over the floor when he looks down. Not a single drop nor broken clay fragment. 

Merlin slowly raises his head.

The mug is _floating._ No, Merlin corrects to himself: not really floating or levitating, it’s just there. The liquid’s shining, reflecting the light of the sun from the window, frozen in place.

Frozen in time.

Magic is such a bizarre thing. He plucks the mug out of the air, feeling discomfited when the liquid within doesn’t so much as slosh or ripple. It’s just like the surface of a lake in winter, completely frozen. 

“How’d you do that?” He says, stealing a glance at Arthur as he turns the mug experimentally, marveling at how nothing falls out when he tilts it and holds it upside down. 

Arthur shakes his head, runs a hand through his hair. “I didn’t.”

“Of course you did. That was magic, obviously.” He puts it down on the little table in the room, touches the ridged sides of the mug again testily with his palms. It’s hot, as Arthur said it was, but there’s no steam drifting off the surface of the honey-coloured fluid.

“No, Merlin.” Arthur’s voice is grave. “You did.”

Merlin laughs uncertainly, because he doesn’t know what else to do in response to that. Arthur’s acting strange. “I don’t have _magic_ , Arthur. You’re the sorcerer, not me. I was sent after you.”

“Yes, you don’t have your own magic. You have mine.”

“What?”

Arthur sits back down, like he’s not completely fucking with Merlin’s mind right now. “Something happened yesterday, when that artifact broke. They’d drained and trapped my magic in it, but when I set it free, my magic accepted you as a new host.”

“That’s impossible,” Merlin says, but Arthur glares him into silence.

“Impossible or not, it happened. I had my suspicions, and wondered if it was just my magic weakening to the point of me not being able to sense it, but that little test confirmed it.” Merlin looks at the mug Arthur’s pointing at, feels the same surge of something within him as he looks at it as the blood rushes to his head. He starts when steam starts coming off from the surface of the mug again.

“You did that!” He accuses, clenching his fists, because this isn’t funny anymore. Never was. “Is this some kind of sick revenge? Trying to trick me into thinking I have magic?”

Arthur buries his face in one palm. “Why would I go to all that effort? And I know now it’s my magic you have, or that you do at least have magic now. Your eyes just glowed gold, just like anyone with magic when we use it. They did when you stopped that mug from falling, and they did when you reset time for it after.”

“I only have your word for it.”

“My magic first manifested by stopping time. When my sister climbed a tree as a child, the branch she was sitting on snapped when she was waving at me from it. I stopped her from falling, got to her in time to cushion her fall. After that, I could do all the little things, like set a candle aflame, or make flowers blossom on wintry grounds.” Arthur pauses, and he’s still looking so fucking calm about this, damn him. “But I started by stopping time first, which no other magical person I know has ever done. And you just did that.”

“Shut up,” Merlin snaps, all other thoughts leaving him. His world’s shifting horribly around him now, his understanding of it as he knows it, and he wants to punch Arthur’s face in because, “I can’t be a sorcerer. I’ve never had magic. There’s no way I have magic now. I—”

“Fucking hell, Merlin, you have magic. My magic!” Arthur slams a fist against the wall with a resounding thump. It’s a small room, and Merlin feels the dull vibrations shake through his bed. “I’ll figure out something later because I need it back. It’s my _life._ It’s what protects me, it’s what I am. But it’s a fact that you have my magic, and now you’re the sorcerer between us both. Deal with it!” The first display of such intense emotion from Arthur in this entire conversation leaves Merlin open-mouthed. Arthur draws a deep breath after, then another. “Goodness knows I’ve had to deal with being magic my entire life.”

“I can’t have magic.” Merlin looks down at his hands, still thin and pale. He moves his fingers, almost afraid to think about the possibility, having these tables turned on him. “I can’t be the one that... people like _me_ hunt. It can’t happen.”

“Tough luck,” Arthur says bitterly. “Maybe this is some strange kind of retribution, letting you have a taste of your own medicine.”

“I didn’t _want_ to kill them!” It's only half a lie — he'd enjoyed the games of deceit he'd played, but not so much the killing of some of his victims. Especially the children. For some of the others... Merlin has to admit that he thought quick deaths had always been too kind of a punishment for them.

Arthur yanks the front of his shirt and pulls Merlin up, nearly lifting him off his feet. “But you did,” he snarls, eyes boring into Merlin’s, bright with anger. “You did, and you can’t change that.” 

It’s an echo of the snippets of their previous conversation, deep in the night before the revelation of Merlin’s true identity. He’d told Merlin he’d had to forgive himself, but Arthur had no idea then as to what Merlin meant by the deeds he’d committed. 

Merlin can’t look him in the eye. Arthur draws his hand back with a disgusted huff, and Merlin stumbles backwards. 

“You know what they do to us,” he says quietly, turning his back to Merlin. “How they hunt us. Never mind how young they are, or what they’ve done with their magic, be it to grow a flower or to play pranks. In their eyes, we all deserve to die.

“They have such little regard for human life. It doesn’t matter, you know, as long as they achieve their goals. Witch hunts and the public burnings of magic users... I thought that’d stopped all those hundreds of years ago in Camelot, as they say in history, but they brought it back. Stoked and fanned the flames of hatred, just because they could. I don’t know what they want, but I know they’ve sacrificed countless innocents for what they believed in.”

Folding his arms, fingers gripping tightly at his elbows, Arthur turns around to look at Merlin. He shifts now on the edge of Arthur’s bed, his back curved as he covers his eyes with one palm. “You were sent to kill me. How many innocent lives have you taken, Merlin, in the name of the Guild?”

Merlin laughs mirthlessly, shoulders shaking. “Who’s to judge who’s innocent and who isn’t? After the first death, the rest might as well be the same. The horror at your first kill lingers, but if you don’t steel yourself and live with it, you won’t survive.”

“You—” Arthur begins, speechless with rage.

“You _live with it._ The thing about killing for a living is that you don’t forget. How could you? After taking a life, watching it bleed out of the person you’ve stabbed through the heart?” Merlin flexes his fingers, seeing something there that he knows Arthur can’t. “I know I’ve killed some people who were truly vile, who used magic for corruption, for despicable means. Yes. And I’ve killed innocents. I’m not trying to justify what I did, but I stopped, after a while. I refused to take on jobs like that anymore, that involved the killing of innocents.”

“But you let them die,” Arthur says. “At the hands of others.”

“I let them die,” Merlin agrees, his words heavy. 

“You didn’t stop it.”

“I was the one person. By the time I began to doubt what it was we did, at least for some of those we killed, I’d noticed how segregated we all were. Even from when we were trained as children. Don’t play with others, complete your work alone. I was removed from the rest, and had no allies, no one I could possibly approach to...” He stops and pulls lightly at the chain around his neck again. It gives him comfort. “So, I discarded that foolish notion and continued with my blood-drenched life.”

“How easy it must be to say that,” Arthur says.

“Fuck you,” Merlin spits, his fists clenching at the edge of the bed. “It was all I knew how to do. I was just a machine to them, a tool. Just like any other arrow you’ll see, they wielded me masterfully. Took aim at those they wanted to eliminate, and fired.”

“Piss-poor excuses!”

“What do you want from me?” Merlin shouts, standing up again. “What do you fucking want? Because words and apologies are useless now, and I can’t do anything to change the past, to make up for it.”

Arthur makes a frustrated noise, gritting his teeth as he gestures wildly with one hand. “I just want my magic back. I don’t want anything else to do with you, otherwise,” he snaps. “I won’t leave you, you’re still weak, but I don’t want to bloody talk to you. Just... shut up, Merlin. Shut the fuck up.”

Merlin does, glaring at Arthur sullenly. Let Arthur have his shallow victory, Merlin seethes, if he must. They’re both quiet for some time, petty and unwilling to break the silence, until Arthur sighs.

“We’ll leave by nightfall. Pack your things, and if you so much as draw your knife against me again — magic or no magic, I’ll make you pay.”

“Leave?” Merlin says, completely ignoring Arthur’s earlier words now. “Where are we going?”

“I told you before,” Arthur says, almost unwillingly, glaring back at Merlin. “I have an uncle, who could probably help with my situation, and what I want to achieve. If nothing else, he’ll at least offer shelter and some modicum of protection against our pursuers.”

“Fine,” Merlin says.

“Fine!”

 Rolling his eyes, Merlin trudges over to his side of the room and gets back into his bed out of spite, pulling the covers over himself. Massaging his temples and the healing spot of pain where Arthur’d struck him yesterday, he closes his eyes and resolves to not talk to Arthur again for as long as he can manage, just because. He never should’ve taken this job in the first place, but it’s far too late to regret that now.

* * *

Merlin has enough gold to get horses for them both, and he does. Arthur takes a handsome black stallion for himself, and Merlin settles for a sweet bay mare that takes such a liking to him, she nuzzles at him every time he so much as walks by. If they were on better terms, he might’ve teased Merlin about it, but they’re both still feeling the sting from their row too much to even attempt talking to each other.

Even in their mutual silence, Arthur can sense the simmering frustration slowly coming to a boil. Two days on and he’s started snapping at Merlin, who’d been bewildered at first and even looked upset, but had began to get angry at Arthur in turn, too. 

It doesn’t help that Arthur’s not had much sleep since that night he had that narrow altercation with the Guild. He’s loath to admit anything to Merlin, their unwillingness to talk to each other now notwithstanding, but the last few nights have had him waking up from disturbing dreams while tossing and turning. Sometimes, he can still taste the smoke and salt on his tongue, the fire burning bright behind his eyes. A voice calls out his name every so often, the silhouette with arms outstretched always just the slightest bit out of reach. 

He’s never had these dreams before, and they don’t seem in any way prophetic, which were the nature of the dreams Morgana sometimes had — if not for her Seeing abilities, they probably wouldn’t have survived some of the first few attacks on their band of sorcerers. They’re confusing, because when Arthur sees himself in those brief glimpses of his dreams, he’s cloaked in finer clothing than he’s ever had, winding the endless stone corridors of a cold, candlelit place. It doesn’t feel like he’s piecing together a random maze from fragments of his memories; instead, it looks familiar, like he can anticipate what turning a certain corner will reveal.

The spell book in his bag is heavy, but he’s glad he didn’t throw it away now that he has to sort out this fine mess. When he wakes up in the middle of the night from his dreams, Arthur sometimes lights a candle on his side of the room — with some small flint stones now that he can’t just will flame into existence — thumbing through pages of words and symbols for anything that might hint as to how he can claim his own magic back. He hasn’t had much luck.

Still, whatever problems Arthur’s experiencing with rest, he can see that Merlin’s having the worse situation between the both of them. Merlin’s riding has slowed considerably from his initial canter to a lethargic, controlled trot, and Arthur knows it’s definitely not due to his steed, rather the way Merlin shakes his head to keep himself awake as they journey on. 

“What’s gotten into you?” He asks eventually, unable to take it anymore.

“Didn’t know you cared,” Merlin says, without much heat. He takes his reins in one hand, rubbing his eyes with the back of another. “It’s a little hard to see where we’re going sometimes, s’all.” The sun’s hanging sharp and right above their heads, beating down mercilessly with white-hot light that gets in their eyes, but he’s clearly lying about that.

Arthur pulls back and has his steed trot back to where Merlin is. Merlin pointedly doesn’t look at him, but Arthur can see how badly he’s affected by... whatever it is that’s affecting him. The shadows under his eyes are dark, and he’s looking even paler than usual, his normally clear eyes listless. Arthur leans forward for a better look, smoothing his hand over the mane of his horse, and finds what he’s looking for: weak little glints of gold in Merlin’s eyes every few seconds.

“Liar,” he says softly, and pretends to not hear when Merlin makes an irritated sound. Arthur rides on again, not looking back at Merlin. “Could be the magic.”

“No,” Merlin says quickly. “It’s not —”

Arthur waits, the rhythm of hooves against grass and earth breaking the monotony of rustling leaves around them.

“I can’t sleep.” It’s not that big a confession, but Merlin offers it with some grudging difficulty, as though saying the words themselves cost him. “The magic does make me uncomfortable, but I just can’t get any proper sleep, not between hours.” He glances at Arthur suspiciously, as if Arthur has some ulterior motives for asking about him and is just waiting for the other shoe to drop. “Why am I even telling you this?”

“I’m the one who grew up magic, aren’t I?” Arthur says, long-suffering. “Not that I’d know anything about magic and changing hosts, but...”

“I just can’t sleep,” Merlin interrupts sharply. “That’s all. If we can get somewhere quieter tonight, that would help.”

They don’t voice it, but they both know very well it won’t. “Maybe.” 

Later, they find a small place off the road and river with vines of lovely purple flowers creeping on its walls, a little home to an elderly couple who apparently never really get visitors if their sheer enthusiasm in asking Merlin and Arthur to stay for dinner is anything to go by.

Gaius and Alice, are lovely enough, offering them a small room at the back and refusing their coin. Gaius looks at Merlin sternly when Merlin insists. “It gets very cold at night, child, and I will not accept payment for doing the decent, hospitable thing. But you can help me with the dishes after dinner if you like. Your friend can help us with some woodwork tomorrow.”

Merlin does, and Arthur tries to keep a straight face at the table when he hears the sound of dishes clanging to the ground and Merlin’s frantic apologies in the kitchen. Gaius just sighs resignedly and  after the third crash, says very loudly, “I’ll do them, but you put them on the shelf.”

They’re still not really talking civilly, really, but when Merlin sits down again at the table, looking contrite, Arthur raises an eyebrow at him.

“I had servants for that,” Merlin hisses under his breath to Arthur, who just shakes his head and turns back to Alice, who’s just asked him about his family.

“I have a sister,” Arthur says, and Alice beams at him. “Her name’s Morgana, and she’s older than me by a year. She’s a born manipulator, and an even dirtier fighter.” He holds out his hand, and shows them the little leather bracelet tied there. “Gift from her. It was my birthday present, and a belated apology for nearly taking my eye out once.”

Gaius tuts, and walks slowly to the table with some mulled wine. It’s sweet in Arthur’s mouth, and warms him up instantly. “Sounds quite the woman,” Gaius says, and Alice smacks his hand lightly.

Arthur laughs. “She’s very popular with the boys, goodness knows why. They say she’s a vision of loveliness, but I’ve grown up with her and seen her at her worst. Muddy knees and running around half-naked in the house when she can’t find her breeches? Vision of loveliness, my arse.”

The entire table erupts with laughter, and even Merlin chuckles at his words.

“Siblings are like that. How about you, Merlin, my boy? Any family?” Gaius smiles kindly at Merlin.

Sitting up straight, Merlin’s demeanour is suddenly sober. Merlin twiddles his thumbs, taking a sip from his glass, looking a little downcast. “I, um, grew up in the orphanage. We weren’t particularly close to one another.” He rubs his neck after, fingers thumbing the edges of his silver chain. So Merlin must've been lying about the being adopted thing too, Arthur thinks.

“I’m sorry.” Alice covers Merlin’s pale hand with her much smaller, frail-looking ones, and pats him lightly. “I hope you find your own family, soon. You’ll find everyone belongs somewhere, finds a place they call home. Doesn’t have to be a place, even, if you find your home in someone.”

“I hope so.” Merlin smiles at her, but his eyes are sad. His gaze passes over Arthur and he hesitates, for a split-second, before he looks away. “I’ll be fine.”

Alice and Gaius mumble something in understanding, before exchanging a fond glance with each other. “We’ve never been blessed with children, but it’s always been enough to have each other,” Alice says, leaning against Gaius’ shoulder as she links her arm through his. “More than enough.”

Gaius coughs, embarrassed, and Arthur grins at him blushing in the candlelight. “Yes, well,” he says gruffly. “She was willing to run away with me, when I was a penniless physician. So...”

“I hope you find your happiness, Merlin,” Alice says, and looks at him, really looks at him. “I hope you find whatever it is you’re looking for.”

Merlin nods, biting his lip, looking so forlorn suddenly that it tugs at Arthur’s heart unexpectedly. He leans forward and nearly reaches out to touch Merlin’s shoulder before he catches himself in time, the snide echoes of their last argument resounding in his mind.

He draws his hand back, clenching his fists under the table, but still finds himself unable to muster true condescension and loathing towards Merlin. Arthur has met his fair share of people from the Guild who’d tried to kill him, tried to win over his and Morgana’s trust before sneaking up on them, tried to seduce him before they drove a knife through his heart. Merlin’s basically done the same up to a point, but he’s the only one who hesitated.

_You’re different, Arthur._

Well, Merlin’s different, too. 

Arthur’s still angry with Merlin at his discovery of Merlin’s true identity and his past deeds, but he remembers what Merlin had told him about how he grew up and how he might not have been completely dishonest. While Arthur doesn’t know how they raise children there, he knows enough to gather that they break their children like others do young horses for training, poisoning them with their ideologies until they grow into the unquestioning killers Arthur has become so familiar with: vicious, ruthless wolves that would tear you apart without a second thought for what they truly believed was a higher cause, a necessity for the kingdom their Elders were ruling with terror. 

Terror, at least, for the magic users. Non-magic users had no issues with the Guild, unless they expressed sympathy for those with magic, in which case they were prompted to reserve their discussions on the matter behind closed doors or risk the attention of Guild patrols who kept an ear out for dissent.

“We’ll be heading to bed, then,” Alice says, walking over with a bit of a limp to bend down and kiss both Merlin and Arthur on their cheeks. “You boys be good now, and we’ll see you in the morning.”

“You remind me of my mother, when she was alive,” Arthur says, grinning as he kisses her cheek in return. He gets up too, and sees Gaius and Merlin both looking at him, the former with a contemplative look and the latter... with longing. Not so much at Arthur, really, but there’s undeniable yearning in his expression. Arthur wonders if Merlin had known his parents at all.

“Aren’t you a sweet one?” She pats his arm, and moves over to Gaius, holding his hand. “Good night.”

There’s a small chorus of _good nights_ from all of them, and then they’re walking down the other end of the narrow corridor to the small room they’re taking for the night.

It’s small, and there isn’t much bedding, but Arthur’s had worse. He takes off his coat and spreads it out under the blankets and sheets Alice and Gaius gave them, padding it for some comfort. Merlin does the same, and again, takes the bed nearest to the window, pulling the sheets over himself and turning his back to Arthur after.

The minutes drag slowly by, and they’re both uncomfortably aware of how awake the other is. Arthur lets his breathing even out, but it’s probably very obvious to a trained assassin like Merlin that he’s not asleep at all.

“Go to sleep,” Merlin says sourly after a bit, back still turned to Arthur. “You’re loud.”

“And _you’re_ not?” Arthur says, shifting to look at Merlin’s form in the soft light of the room. 

“I’m not going to kill you when you’re sleeping, if that’s what you’re worried about.”

Unwilling to rise to the bait, Arthur huffs. Merlin’s clearly spoiling for a fight. “There’s no point killing me now, anyway. You’ll end up with my magic permanently, they’ll sniff you out, and target you instead. Or, if you _don’t_ kill me, and they take me alive as previously intended, they’ll find out I don’t have magic, and figure out the truth eventually. You can’t hide forever either, and the two of us have more of a fighting chance.”

He has to hand it to Merlin; the man’s a master of conveying sullen and highly effective silence.

“I don’t trust you,” Arthur says, perhaps a tad cruelly, because it wasn’t so long ago that he’d implied the very opposite. Maybe he’s imagining things, but he thinks he sees Merlin’s shoulders stiffen a little in the darkness. “But we’re both in trouble now, and someone as shrewd as you... I think you’d be aware of the risks of alienating the one person who could help you now, don’t you?”

There’s a sigh from the other end of the room. Arthur can practically see Merlin rolling his eyes. “Go to sleep, Arthur.”

It’s the first time he’s said Arthur’s name since that night. “Good night, Merlin.”

Arthur doesn’t remember when he drifted off into a dreamless sleep, but he must have at some point. When he stirs into wakefulness in the middle of the night, it’s because someone is next to him, a warm line of heat against his body.

He doesn’t scream or anything, but it’s a near thing. Bracing his hands against the figure and preparing to defend himself if necessary, Arthur immediately reaches for the knife he keeps under his makeshift pillow. 

“It’s me,” the person whispers, and even with his voice much softer than its taunting usual, Arthur has gotten to the point where he can recognise Merlin’s cadences anywhere. Relief calms his thudding heart. “Merlin.”

“I know,” Arthur says, feigning bravado, as if he hadn’t just been completely shocked and ready to unleash hell if he’d had to. “What is it?”

“Nothing,” Merlin says, moving closer and resting his head against Arthur’s shoulder. “You’re fucking freezing, sire. I miss your bed.”

“What?” _Sire._ There’s something nagging him about that word. Never mind that it’s a title for royalty, but when Merlin says it, there’s a ring to it that hints at something deeper. Ancient. “Why are you calling me that?”

A snort. “For years and lifetimes you tell me to give you the due respect you deserve, and now you’re opposed to me calling you that? Typical.”

Then Merlin’s nuzzling his cheek, lips just brushing his skin, and now Arthur’s heart is beating too fast because of something else entirely.

“But above everything, I’ve missed you.”

He barely has time to process it before Merlin moves over him and slides his mouth over his, cupping Arthur’s face and carding his fingers through his hair. It’s intense, and even though he knows that something is inherently wrong with this situation, Arthur finds himself kissing Merlin back. 

At least, until he opens his eyes and sees Merlin’s eyes are gold, flickering brightly in the darkness. Where they’d been weak pulses of light during the day when his magic had been acting up, they’re vivid now, bright shades of alternating hazel and gold. Something’s definitely wrong.

“Merlin.” He breaks the kiss, pulling away when Merlin’s lips chase his. “Merlin, you...” 

He’s ignored as Merlin kisses his way up to Arthur’s forehead, just resting his lips there tenderly, a sweet gesture that breaks Arthur’s heart a little. It’s completely different from the fevered heat of the first kiss they shared, even if it’s undeniably Merlin. This, this is more than lust, at least from what he can sense on Merlin’s part. There’s a powerful, almost painful affection in every soft brush of Merlin’s touch, every path his lips paint on Arthur’s skin. Reverent, even.

“Merlin!” He says again, loudly, hoping he’s not going to disturb Alice and Gaius.

It’s startling when Merlin snaps out of his trance, but the change is remarkable. His eyes stop shining gold, returning to a bright, glowing blue for the shortest of moments before they’re swathed in darkness again. He’s still cupping Arthur’s face, forehead against Arthur’s, and they’re both breathing hard from the kiss.

“Why am I—” he begins, taking in how he’s almost straddling Arthur, and what they must have done. His expression twists in such confused distress Arthur automatically reaches out to stroke his arm, but Merlin shies from his touch, scrambling off Arthur and making his way back to his side of the room.

“What was that?” Arthur asks, still thrown.

Merlin doesn’t reply, but he makes a frustrated, agonised groan and there’s a sound of a fist pummeling against soft sheets.

When it’s clear that Merlin’s not going to talk about this, Arthur tries with his own confession. For all he knows, it could be a key to what’s been happening. “I haven’t been able to sleep well, either. There’ve been strange dreams.” And they were strange, indeed. “They don’t feel like made-up dreams. They’re more like... memories. I remember them, but in flashes. I know they have happened, before. I know what happens after, how a progression of memories end, but I never remember it properly when I wake up,” Arthur says. “They only started after what happened that night.”

It’s a very long time before Merlin speaks. “I’ve been dreaming, too,” he says, quietly, as if imparting a deep secret. “But I don’t remember everything, either. I remember some things. They shouldn’t be real. They’re surreal. Fantastical. There are dragons, magic like I’ve never seen, sword fights and armour like what we see in those illustrated tapestries.”

They’ve been featuring in Arthur’s dreams too, he remembers now, but he’d forgotten them. “I dream of _you_. And there are castles, and Morgana. She’s there too, I think.” Like other dreams he forgets in the morning, he’s beginning to remember this latest one just as he grasps the thread of it, one memory leading to another, piecing everything together. “Why?”

“Is it because of your magic?” Merlin asks, and while Arthur can’t see his expression, the bitterness in his voice says it all. Like he should’ve known better than to expect any good to come of magic. “Because of, of what I have inside me, now —”

“If it was just because of that, I wouldn’t be getting these dreams too,” Arthur says coldly, and Merlin, to his credit, takes the hint and doesn’t press further. “There’s something more to this.”

Merlin purses his lips. “Maybe.”

They don’t speak anymore that night, the uneasy feelings between them settling thickly in the room like the cold wisps of wind creeping in around their feet from the holes in the walls. But when Arthur turns his back to Merlin, sleep claiming him again, he slips into dreams of a different Merlin from another place, another time: a Merlin who smiles at him  like he means everything, who brushes his fingers against Arthur’s face when he fastens a red cloak around his neck, who hands him a sword with his eyes glowing.

* * *

 

They don’t mention what happened the night before the entire morning. Merlin and Arthur avoid each other’s eyes during breakfast, much to the consternation and puzzlement of Gaius and Alice. Arthur even goes so far as to get up and walk around the table to get the damned salt just so he doesn’t have to ask Merlin to pass it to him, which Merlin rolls his eyes at but doesn’t comment on.

Arthur fixes some loose boards on the roof later for Gaius, and when they leave, Alice hugs them both very tightly and smiles indulgently at Merlin. “I hope the two of you make up,” she says, before she bids them goodbye from inside the house, and Gaius walks them to the edge of his garden where they’ve kept the horses tied to some large trees. 

“If you’re looking for the Red Peaks, they’re just there, past the border of Gaer to Camelot.” Gaius points at the tell-tale vermillion-tipped mountains, barely visible past all the wilderness. If Merlin hadn’t been specifically looking for them, he wouldn’t really have noticed them. 

Quickly brandishing his map, Arthur scans it, and looks up from his map to the mountains. “This map’s wrong.”

“Lucky you came by, then,” Gaius says, raising his eyebrow.

Merlin looks at Arthur, who has a troubled expression on his face. “How did you know we were going there? I didn’t mention it during dinner.”

“I thought you looked very familiar, Arthur.” Leaning against a low wooden stump, Gaius sighs. “Many people come through this way to go to the Red Peaks, or to Camelot via the winding beach road, up past the forests of Balor. If you were going to the Red Peaks, then... forgive me, but you must be related to the Lady Ygraine. Your countenances are too similar for you to not be.”

“You knew my mother?” Arthur asks. 

“I lived near the castle, for a time. Lord DuBois was a kind but stern man, and his children left an impression wherever they went.” Gaius smiles at the memory. “The young lord Agravaine was a quiet, intense teenager, while the lady Ygraine was a gentle but fiery soul. You really take after her. How is she?”

Merlin edges subtly away from the both of them to give them some modicum of privacy, but stays nearby anyway just so he can catch bits and pieces of the conversation. He’s interested.

“Thank you,” Arthur says, flustered, but looking pleased. “She was a good mother to me, while she lived.”

“I’m sorry to hear that.”

“Don’t be. It was a bad fever and a cough, and she did her best raising Morgana and me after our father died.”

“Her young man.” Gaius says, laughing. “The knights and the villagers were all heartbroken to hear she ran off with him, and although her father was furious at the start... I like to think he came to terms with it.” 

“Never met him. I hope he did, too; the guilt haunted my mother a great deal,” Arthur says.

“Was she happy?” Gaius finally asks, after a moment of silence.

There’s a faraway look in Arthur’s eyes as he looks up at the sky, the wind picking up the leaves scattered about them and causing little crisp patches of colour to fly every which way. “I like to think she was. Until the very end.”

“I’m glad.”

Arthur’s spirits are obviously lifted after Gaius talked to him about his mother; there’s a spring to his step as he and Merlin make their way into the forests of Balor. It’s heartening to see him happy after the week’s events, but Merlin decides to not comment on anything lest the conversation take an awkward turn into discussing what happened. He _really_ doesn’t want to talk about it, largely because he doesn’t even know what really happened, himself.

The trees in Balor are taller than anywhere else Merlin’s ever seen, towering things that reach up to the sky with a rich abundance of leaves that barely let much sunlight through. They see many fallen trunks along the sides of the paths carved out in the forest by footsteps and leaves as they walk, probably chopped down for firewood and the like. It’s a little sad-looking, in Merlin’s opinion, but people do have to keep warm. He gets that.

When they stop to refill their waterskins at a little stream, Merlin takes a raven out gently from his satchel and feeds it some corn and grain. He’s relieved when it doesn’t snap its beak at him, but then again, ravens have always been very intelligent. It probably thinks nipping at Merlin is beneath it.

“I didn’t know you had a pet raven,” Arthur says, when the raven nibbles at Merlin and butts its head against Merlin’s palm. 

At least they’re not talking about anything awkward. “Not really my pet, but if you’re not being technical...”

Arthur makes a gesture as if he’s about to say something, but seems to think better of it. Merlin leaves his raven lying there on his lap as he takes out a small, long piece of parchment and a battered quill, knowing very well it’s seen better days. The feather had been from a merlin falcon, and it’s served him well.

When he’s finished writing with it, he carefully ties the parchment around one of the raven’s feet, and unties the flimsy rope he’d used to keep it bound while he was feeding it. The raven immediately spreads its wings, flapping them a little at Merlin because it can, and as if testing it out again after a few days of not being airborne. Satisfied, the bird finally takes off in a whirl of black feathers.

It’s not long before it disappears into the sky, a little black speck in an ocean of blue and white. Arthur’s the first to look away from it, and he turns to Merlin, his voice taking on an accusing edge. “Letting the others from the Guild know where I am?”

“No,” Merlin says, but he feels the sting, which is probably what Arthur had intended. While he terribly wants to match Arthur’s tone and say something such as: _I deserve better than that from you_ , Merlin knows that he’s not in the position to say that. “I told them I lost you.”

“Why would you do that?” Arthur might be smart, but he certainly has his thick moments.

“I’m going with you to your uncle.” Merlin dusts down the inside of his bag, picking up a few stray feathers clinging to the lining and letting them fall to the ground. “Hopefully, they won’t link what happened in Gaer to us, but that’s wishful thinking.”

He stands up and walks over to his horse, turning around when Arthur doesn’t move. “You coming?”

“I’m really not getting it. I know I said all those things, but really, you could’ve just easily let them capture me after what I’ve done to you. You could act like you didn’t have magic, and... they’d be none the wiser,” Arthur says. “So, why?”

“I guess I changed my mind.” Merlin hoists himself up on his mare, who harrumphs a little when he tugs gently at the reins. “Pretty sure I can do that.”

It looks like Arthur’s beginning to smile from this angle. “You said I was different, but so are you.”

“Don’t let my secret out, sorcerer,” Merlin says, without heat. “I have a reputation to keep.”

“Not anymore.” Arthur gets on his horse too, and together, they continue past the winding paths of trees.

“The Guild will still send reinforcements,” he warns Arthur, the shades of green and brown blurring around them as they pick up the pace, their horses breaking into an excited gallop. “I don’t know when they’ll catch up to us, but they will, especially as we’re heading near the centre of their activity.”

“That’s Camelot, isn’t it?”

“Yes. I grew up there, in the old castle. They probably think we’re fleeing and running away from Gaer in the opposite direction, but not towards Camelot. It’ll buy us some time.”

“Let them come,” Arthur says fiercely over the din of galloping hooves. 

“You’re an idiot,” Merlin says. “But a brave one.”

* * *

 

The Red Peaks are visible from where they are, but even after their days of riding, they’re probably only halfway there. The gray stone castle hangs there, near yet far, mocking them teasingly from behind the tips of the tallest trees of the forest.

They both dread it when night falls. Their dreams are becoming more intense and occurring more often, no longer obscure as they both begin to put two and two together after each one.

Arthur’s certain they’re memories now, although how he knows he can’t really say. It’s with a bone-deep certainty that he tells Merlin that, but Merlin’s an unimaginative skeptic who’ll hear nothing of it. How else, though, can they explain instinctively knowing what’ll happen next when they see something that happens in their dreams, remembering the scenes like they happened just yesterday?

One time, Arthur sees himself looking into the rippling surface of a river, arguing with Merlin about something. Merlin’s still got something that looks like a ratty scarf on, with a dirty tunic and a threadbare brown coat that seems to do very little to keep the cold out, but he’s very much recognisable due to the shit-eating grin he’s always got on. Still does even now, in fact. 

Another time, Merlin punches him in the face while Arthur’s sitting with a young, dark-haired girl in a meadow. While he can’t remember what they were yelling at each other in the dream, he knows what it’s about. He knows that Merlin had liked that girl in their village, and because of his own dissatisfaction at Merlin spending so much time with her, had chosen to woo her in turn, and succeeded.

There’s yet another dream where Merlin is a noble, funnily, and Arthur a visiting knight. They don’t get on when Merlin comments on Arthur’s swordplay at dinner, and Arthur takes it so personally that he drags Merlin aside after and hisses, “I’ll show _you_ swordplay,” before taking Merlin to bed. 

The dreams spiral quickly into a series of vivid images, sounds and remembered touch: Arthur _knows_ how those metal links feel under his hands when Merlin fastened his armour for him in his dreams, how the flowers felt against his face as Merlin’s surprisingly strong blow struck him, and the silk of Merlin’s blue sheets as they moved together in the starlight streaming in from the window in Merlin’s chambers. He knows, and he remembers.

Whenever he tells Merlin of these dreams, though, Merlin usually tries to change the subject, even though he’d confessed he’d experienced similar visions before too. Arthur’s not sure what’s prompted this change in behaviour, but whatever it is probably lies in how Merlin’s looking more and more haggard by the day, the shadows framing his face growing darker and his skin looking even paler in daylight than before. He’s jumpy now every time Arthur catches him unawares, skittish as a colt, a kind of horrified light in his eyes.

All that, and he’s found nothing in his spell book about what’s happened to the both of them, of any rituals on how to exchange magic ownership in such a way. Arthur’s magic has always been so intrinsic that it would’ve been impossible for something like that to happen in the first place.

“I can’t do anything if you won’t let me,” Arthur says, one afternoon, when he surprises Merlin by accident by putting a hand on his shoulder and gets hurled against a tree for his efforts. He gets to his feet, rubbing the back of one gloved hand against his mouth where he’d nearly taken in a mouthful of grass when he’d landed on the ground, and cricks his neck. “It’s the magic, isn’t it? The dreams?”

“Leave me alone,” Merlin replies automatically, just like he’s always had the last few times Arthur’s asked. It’s really getting on his nerves now. 

“I thought we’re all right now. Or aren’t we?” It’s seemed like that to Arthur, at least, because Merlin had finally warmed up to him again after what happened, even though it’s really Arthur who’s in the position to feel wronged about the entire thing. “If yes, then let me fucking help you already, instead of being stubborn.”

Merlin’s face crumples when Arthur looks at him, and something inside Arthur breaks a little too at his expression. “I’m fine,” Merlin says softly, his expression tired and torn. “Please leave me be. I beg you.”

It’s so heartfelt and raw that Arthur finds himself saying, “All right,” and turning away, even though he knows he should really tend to Merlin. He should override Merlin’s wishes and just check if he’s all right, maybe work with him and his magic, see if there’s anything he can do. He should, but when he comes to a step in front of their tent and thinks of turning back to Merlin at the campfire, the words replay in his mind, soft and exhausted. He doesn’t have the heart to deny Merlin, not tonight.

At least that’s what he tells himself, up until he wakes up to Merlin calling his name in the darkness, tugging at Arthur’s sleeve.

“Merlin?” He says, groggy with sleep, and pries Merlin’s tight, shaking grip from his tunic. “What’s wrong?”

“It’s cold,” Merlin says, weakly, and when Arthur pulls him closer and rests his forehead against Merlin’s, the heat of it shocks him. He places a hesitant palm against Merlin’s neck, wincing at how Merlin’s drenched with sweat. 

“You’re feverish,” Arthur murmurs, lying him down. “Hang on.”

He restarts the fire outside and takes a warm wet rag to press on Merlin’s forehead, wiping at his face. When Merlin turns to move nearer to him, restless and subconsciously seeking heat, Arthur gently pulls Merlin’s eyelids up while propping his neck up for support. The flashes of gold are back, wild and bright at the edges of Merlin’s eyes, inconsistent as they glow and fade out. 

“What’s happening to me?” Merlin asks, taking in great gulps of breath. Arthur pulls his coat and a thick pelt he’d nicked over him.

“You’re not adjusting well to the magic.” He takes his waterskin and holds it to Merlin’s lips, and Merlin drinks it readily, sputtering when he drinks a little too much at once. “I don’t think it’s rejection. It could just be getting used to you as a host, and it’s a lot to take in at once.”

“This is all your fault,” Merlin says half-heartedly, closing his eyes and clutching at the rag on his forehead. 

“Yeah, yeah, blame magic.” It gets him thinking, though: _why_ isn’t the magic rejecting Merlin?

“I don’t really mean that.” Lying flat on his back, Merlin fumbles around his side until his fingers brush Arthur’s hand, and he grips it tightly. “This is far from the best thing’s that happened to me, but you were right. You’ve had to deal with it for the longest time, surely I can bear with it for a while until you find a way to fix this.”

“Ha,” Arthur says non-committally, wondering how he’ll ever tell Merlin that he has absolutely no idea where to start now that it’s clear the spell book has nothing to say on the matter.

“You really could’ve left me to die.” Merlin tries to laugh, but it’s a weak, wet sound. “But you had to be all noble and things, because you probably wouldn’t have been able to live with yourself if you’d left me to the mercy of those wolves. Just like how you’ve always been.”

It takes a while for that comment to sink in. “Those dreams — ”

“I didn’t want to admit it for a while.” When Merlin's voice drops to a whisper, Arthur leans closer to hear Merlin while he supports himself on an elbow and continues wiping at Merlin’s forehead with a cloth. “Surely even magic can’t induce such powerful hallucinations on two people. I remember so much of it now, Arthur. My mind’s missing the crucial pieces, but I remember things too. I remember you. You were always there in my dreams, my memories.” 

“You really think they’re memories, then?” While it’d been a plausible theory, Arthur finds the idea of it actually being real very horrifying. 

Merlin smiles at him, eyes golden when he opens them briefly. “Do you believe in reincarnation?”

“A myth,” Arthur says, quick to dismiss it.

“I don’t either. Well, didn’t,” Merlin says. “But the dreams kept coming. I knew what was going to happen in certain dreams, and then they did.”

“You came to the same realisation I did,” Arthur says. “We can talk about it soon. Just get some rest.”

“No, Arthur, I...” Merlin pulls at the very edge of Arthur’s sleeve when he makes to move away to sleep on his own side of the tent. “I watched you die many times when I dreamed. Sometimes, I had nothing to do with it, but sometimes, I caused your death. In those dreams, whenever you died, a little part of me died too.”

“Sweet of you to care,” he says dryly, and Merlin laughs a little at that. “I’m still very much alive though, obviously.”

“It doesn’t matter if you believe in it or not, Arthur, it’s real. I’ve been in each and every of those lives with you. For what reason, though, I can’t say.”

“I’ve seen you in some of them, if not all.” He has. In some way or another, Merlin’s always been in them; as a younger sibling, a friend, a rival, a lover. Arthur has dreamed of so many strange, different times and places that they’re all starting to blur in his mind. The one constant is Merlin. “Probably couldn’t get rid of you if I tried.”

“Probably, sire,” Merlin agrees. 

Arthur chuckles at that, before the awkward, ringing realisation of what Merlin’s just said settles over them both. “You called me that again.”

Raising a hand to his mouth, Merlin looks away from Arthur and up at the tent. “I did, didn’t I?”

“The strongest memory that keeps coming back to me in those dreams,” Arthur begins slowly, “Is always of me being in this... castle, from a prosperous land. They call me sire there, and I see you in them. Always.”

Merlin resolutely doesn’t look at Arthur. “You were my king, in those dreams. I had them too.”

“Was I, now?” Arthur says, disbelieving, but his mouth’s spreading into a grin.

“Oh, shut up,” Merlin says. “Telling you that was probably a bad decision on my part.” 

“Tell me more, then.” He props himself up and lies next to Merlin, pulling the layers up over the both of them for warmth. When Merlin gives him a skeptical look, he shrugs. “I get the dreams, but I don’t remember them well. Only if you’re feeling better though,” Arthur says quickly.

“I’m not feeling any better, actually, no thanks to seeing your face,” Merlin teases.

“Oy.” Merlin does look a little better, though. His voice is still weak, but at least there’s more colour in his cheeks now.

“You’re my king in them. It’s Camelot, did you know?” Settling more comfortably under the blanket, Merlin picks at the cloth on his forehead. “I recognise the old castle and the city. Would know those old cobbles and slabs anywhere.”

Arthur moves closer to Merlin, telling himself it’s to share body heat for Merlin’s sake. “I saw you putting on armour for me before some kind of tourney. I couldn’t see myself, but I remember telling you off for missing a step or something like that.”

“Um, yes.” Merlin coughs. “I think I forgot your sword.”

“My sword.”

“Yes.”

“When I had to go for a tourney. You didn’t give me my sword.”

“Leave it, you prick. That happened during my first week on the job or something.”

“As my squire?” This, Arthur doesn’t really remember.

“Nah, nothing so glamorous. Manservant.”

He bursts into helpless laughter for a good few minutes. It’s a while before he can rein himself in and actually say, “You? After what you said about having had _servants_ do the washing for you?”

“ _Yes_ , Arthur.” Merlin sounds so appalled that Arthur snorts.

“I wonder if you had to clean out my chamberpot.”

“Dark times, sire, dark times.”

The more times Merlin says it, the less jarring it sounds. It’s as though the strange past they’ve experienced through their dreams is bleeding into their reality, and now that they’re talking about it, it feels like the most natural thing in the world. Piecing these fragments together with Merlin forms a clearer picture, one that both frightens and awes Arthur.

He’s not sure what else he’ll find out from those dreams, and what’s in store for them.

They lie there together in comfortable silence until Arthur leans over and takes off Merlin’s rag to soak it again in some cold water he’d prepared. The trickling of water from the cloth as he squeezes it fills the tent, and then he spreads it flat on Merlin’s forehead again.

“Thank you,” Merlin says, so quiet that Arthur almost misses it, the gold in his eyes fading and flickering slower now.

He’s not sure how they came to this, after active animosity, near-attempts at killing each other and days of stubbornly ignoring each other. The anger he’s felt at Merlin at the beginning has faded now, and Arthur certainly can’t muster enough of it to lash out at Merlin when he sees the other man like this, vulnerable and reluctantly trusting Arthur. 

“You’re welcome,” he says, and falls asleep to Merlin next to him, familiar and foreign all at once.

* * *

In the wake of the strange revelation with their new memories, they slowly grow to trust each other as Arthur shows Merlin to have better control of his magic. The fevers and pain that haunted Merlin’s waking moments have ebbed away over the long journey, and whenever Merlin wakes up now, it’s to steady hands and clear eyes without traces of gold in them in the reflections of a lake.

While Arthur has finally talked to Merlin about not finding anything in his book of spells — and gibberish, Merlin thinks privately to himself — he’s come to his own conclusions about Merlin’s condition, which is largely why they spend a portion of time when they’re not riding exercising Merlin’s magic and having Arthur try to teach Merlin spells.

Try being the keyword, of course.

“I don’t even know how to pronounce those words,” he says petulantly after failing to set a twig alight for the tenth time. At least, he thinks it’s the tenth time, because Merlin’s really quite sure he’s lost count after the third. Arthur’s tried to teach Merlin to levitate little pebbles and hasten the blossoming of a flower or two; that had been a struggle for Merlin too, even if he’d gotten the hang of it after the better part of an afternoon. “If your magic is so all-encompassing, wouldn’t it be sufficient to just set it on fire with your mind? Well, my mind now.”

Arthur sighs, locking his hands together and resting them on his knees as he sits on a log and watches Merlin practice in a clearing. “I keep telling you, Merlin. Spells are conduits for power, much like the staff is for some sorcerers. If you don’t learn how to use them properly, you run the risk of overexerting yourself over a simple task you’re performing with magic, or bringing in unwanted effects. It’s bringing your power to heel, really training it for precision.”

Grumbling, Merlin holds out his hand the way Arthur’s instructed him, and narrows his eyes at the twig. If only looks could set things afire. “I remembered you rallying and drilling a legion of men in the castle courtyard, fighting each and every one of them until they yielded because they couldn’t take it anymore. Tyrant.”

“Discipline, young warlock,” Arthur barks, and throws a small branch at Merlin, who yelps. “Get back to work.”

“I _am!_ ”

“I remember _those_ days just as well as you. If I was the champion of Camelot, it was because it was well-earned, Merlin. I’m going to make sure you master your magic too, by hook or by crook.”

It’s true. Merlin’s seen the way Arthur’s cut through several of his knights at the same time in his dreams, disarming them with clean strikes and a focus that even Merlin envies. The Arthur of Camelot had been a formidable fighter, a fearless leader that was unstoppable with a sword and a shield. As someone adept with knives and the spear, Merlin can admire that. 

Well, he’s doing a lot more than admiring every time Arthur turns his back to Merlin and those images in his mind blend with the Arthur that _he_ knows in the present. It’s distracting, because if those vivid memories are any indication, Arthur looks fucking good in armour. He’s no slouch when it comes to fighting now, either, though he’s clumsier and much less refined than his Camelot counterpart. 

He’s still thinking about it when Arthur snaps his fingers in front of him, startling Merlin to the point where he nearly jumps. Arthur raises his eyebrows after that, giving Merlin an expectant look.

“Yes, fine, ugh.” Merlin tries again, says the incantation in another few ways he can vary it. Even if his pronunciation makes Arthur wince, he does eventually set a little leaf on the twig alight, and the entire thing burns slowly within seconds, leaving a singed black stain on the grass.

“Well!” Arthur claps him on the back while Merlin just scowls at him. “That wasn’t too hard, was it?”

“Easy for the one born with it to say,” Merlin mumbles, and gets cuffed on the ear for that. “Ow, you  brute!”

Folding his arms, Arthur sits back and watches him thoughtfully. “You’re actually getting a lot better than this, Merlin. You’re... adapting to my magic.” He looks troubled, and bites his lip for a moment. Arthur looks like he wants to say something else, but seems to think better of it. “Are you feeling better now that we’re doing this?” 

Merlin curls and uncurls the fingers of his right hand, wondering how magic can just flow through him like energy. While he still can’t say the damned spell words properly, Arthur’s right — he’s gotten much better at controlling magic, and he can feel it tingling beneath his skin whenever he concentrates on a spell, the intent of his uttered spell fusing with what he wants to happen. 

“I am, actually,” he says slowly, sitting down opposite Arthur as well. “I know you might not want to hear this, and I’m sorry, but some of the sorcerers I’ve... met, in the past, well.” He doesn’t say _killed,_ but from the way Arthur’s lips thin slightly, he knows Arthur’s aware of what he actually means.“They were apprentices to other sorcerers, or had been very diligent in studying the craft, working at it for years and years. Was that how it was like for you?”

Arthur’s back is straight, and his fists are tightly clenched in his lap. Still, his voice is calm when he answers Merlin’s question. “Yes, and no. My magic was very volatile when it first manifested, and remained so even after I’d wielded it for years and years. I was very much like you in the beginning, reckless and unwilling to learn spells because it had been so easy to will things into existence. I was unable to control my power, and soon understood the importance of studying spell work — I set a hut on fire by accident, when I wanted to create a small flame.”

Merlin frowns. “Years.”

“Yes,” Arthur says, sighing. “It was as if my magic was incapable of instruction, at times. Wild. I’ll admit it’s one of the reasons I was alarmed to learn you were my magic’s new host, because if it careened out of control with someone inexperienced...” he trails off, looking at Merlin strangely. “But I see now we won’t have that problem.”

“What?”

“You’ve taken to magic like a duck to water. It’s uncanny.”

Arthur’s tone is starting to set Merlin on edge. Funny how at ease they were just minutes ago, and how things have so quickly become tense between them again. “What is it that you’re trying to say?”

“I’m — I was a very powerful sorcerer, Merlin. I’d thought for the longest time that the sheer amount of power I had was what caused me to have such a slippery grasp over my magic at times.” Arthur rubs his lip as he worries it with his teeth, before he finally says, “But... I dreamed of you doing magic. I’ve been training you in magic day in and day out whenever we can, and I thought it was a natural thing to dream about what we did during the day at night. As time’s passed, though, you’ve proven yourself to be more and more adept at magic. I think they’re memories —”

“Spit it out.”

“It’s almost like it’s belonged to you in the first place.”

Merlin stares at Arthur, open-mouthed. “So...”

“What if you were a sorcerer, before?” Arthur says, urgently. “What if you had magic?”

“I don’t remember anything about me doing magic.” He really doesn’t, not in his dreams. He’s seen the magic in a time of dragons and power, but not of _him_ wielding it.

“Maybe it’s been your magic all along. That would explain everything.”

He recoils at the idea of it. “Such as?”

“Such as...” Arthur starts pacing, making agitated hand gestures. “Such as my magic feeling wrong nearly all my life. Being a part of me, but not really, never truly bending to my will.” He snaps his fingers and turns suddenly to look at Merlin. “Like a pet adjusting to a different owner.”

“Are you seriously comparing magic to a pet right now?”

“Shut up, Merlin, this is serious.” So Merlin does, because Arthur sounds upset and not a little lost. He’s beginning to feel unsettled himself. “By all accounts, everything doesn’t and shouldn’t make sense. You meet me, try to kill me ” Merlin grits his teeth, but says nothing. Arthur has the right to feel wronged. “— and then you... end up with my magic. We dream of each other, things that seem like memories, and now you’re handling my magic with more ease in a few days than I’ve had my entire life. It’s all too much of a coincidence.”

“Maybe it isn’t.” He spreads his palm against the branch of a tree, needing something to hold on to in the light of Arthur’s epiphany. “It’s as though we were drawn together to each other through the years, through those different times. Magic is a terrible, powerful thing, no matter who has it, and it changes the destinies of men.”

“That doesn’t make any sense, and I am not in the mood to argue with you about that right now.”

Merlin shrugs, feeling his body setting into a posture that rather subconsciously mirrors Arthur’s agitated one. “Fine. Then, say I was this sorcerer, and you ended up with my magic.”

“But _why?_ ” Arthur says, raising his voice so it’s almost a shout. It startles a few birds in the trees around them, and then there’s the sound of wings fluttering as they take flight and the leaves rustle. “Why would I be born with it in the first place, if — when it originally belongs to you? Magic is something so instinctual and intimate, you can’t just swap it around like we did. Some people have no talent for it, no magic to tap into, even if they try for years and years to learn incantations and spells and rituals to help them augment whatever little they have.”

His fingers dig into the harsh surface of the branch, the jagged edges of peeled bark cutting into his skin. It’s a lot to take in. “It happened anyway. Who’s to know how magic behaves? If you had that much power, maybe you were an exception.”

“No.” Arthur looks determined. “I’m certain it’s your magic. It responds to you in a way it never did with me.” He throws his hands up, walking over to another thick tree trunk and slams his fists against it, turning his back to Merlin. 

“Why was I born with this curse, then?” Arthur laughs bitterly, slumping. “To think I had to bear that burden all my life! The only thing keeping me going was knowing that I was special, that my power was different, and that I would be able to help so many others with it. Without my magic, I’m nothing.” He takes a deep breath. “And now, I don’t even have that, because it was never mine to lose.”

All the fight drains out of Merlin at Arthur’s outburst. Seeing him so defeated stirs him, and Merlin walks over to him, trying to put a tentative hand on Arthur’s shoulder. “Arthur.”

“Don’t touch me.” Shrugging him off, Arthur turns again to look at Merlin, and the anger in his expression makes Merlin take a few steps back, holding up his hands instinctively. For the briefest moment, he expects to see Arthur’s eyes glow gold, before he remembers. “For all I know, you could’ve been behind this all along. To make me suffer.”

His own anger flares anew, with any guilt and sympathy on his part dissipating in an instant. “Excuse me?” Merlin says.

“You heard me.”

“Arthur, you're being unreasonable. Calm the fuck down.”

"I am nothing without my magic!" Arthur shouts. "It was all I had, and you've taken that away from me. How am I supposed to defend  myself now, let alone those I swore to protect and fight for?"

"You think I wanted this?" Merlin gestures at himself, looking down briefly, his eyes shining gold. The trees around them begin to make cracking sounds as small twigs and branches break and fall off. "I would give this back to you in a heartbeat, if you could figure out a damned way! All this power, it's unnatural. I'll hurt someone, do something I regret. And the Guild doesn't need any more reasons to hunt me down along with you!"

"What if there wasn't a fucking way? Maybe we're doomed to stay like this until we die." Arthur buries his face in his hands. "A destiny to save those born of magic? As if. If the magic's yours, then that's a lie." He looks up at Merlin. "That means it falls to you to save the others. You'll have to fight with us."

He gives Arthur an incredulous look. "You must be joking."

"I'm quite literally powerless." Holding out a hand, Arthur uncurls his fingers, and murmurs a spell. Nothing happens. "And I... They need me. My friends and the sorcerers look to me. I might not be able to lead them with magic now, but I need the magic to help them fight. There is no way to overthrow the Guild otherwise."

"You can't force me to fight a battle that's not mine," Merlin argues, his heart sinking. "Just because I have your power now — "

"Merlin, you don't understand. There is strength in numbers, and we have to band together if we are to have any chance to overcome them. I've..." Arthur waves a hand helplessly. "I've learned you can't keep running. I wanted to stand my ground at first, but we were outnumbered. If we seek my uncle out, if I claim my right to assistance from the DuBois cavalry, we can join forces and kill those in power."

"What then, Arthur? Brute force at displacing the Elders, creating chaos and a power vacuum?" Merlin says. "If we've learned anything from history at all, violence doesn't solve everything. People will try to install others in power, lay claims to the throne — don’t go there, if you’re not prepared to face the consequences!"

Arthur's expression is flinty. "Diplomacy has never been an option here. May I remind you of what you did for a living?"

"I've left that now." It has been a long time, and if not for his accepting the mission to kill Arthur, Merlin would've been happy to have retired somewhere secluded in the country for the rest of his life. "Don't change the subject."

"To have power is to have a responsibility," Arthur says. "You can't leave the magic users like that. The Guild will kill them all in time, regardless of whether they were involved with the resistance, regardless of whether they're criminals or innocent people trying to make an honest living. What is all that power for if not used in the name of duty, to fight for those who have no voices? We can't be selfish."

"You," Merlin corrects. “Don’t put words into my mouth.”

"Coward," Arthur begins, but Merlin cuts him off.

"I'm not afraid of fighting. I did say that it wasn't my battle to fight, but beyond that, doesn't it strike you at how impossible it is for you to win? There are many of them at the Guild, and... you'll be endangering your comrades in such a pointless fight. Many will die."

"I have taken out entire groups of men from the Guild with only one or two sorcerers on my side," Arthur says coldly, and Merlin has to concede that those with magic do have an advantage over those who don't, even if some assassins from the Guild are primed and trained to specifically kill sorcerers. 

As if noticing Merlin’s wincing at his tone, he smooths it out and says, more calmly, "If wielded properly, the power that now resides in you has the power to fell entire battalions. Even I couldn't rely on my magic all the time, but with you, we have a fighting chance. We can definitely win."

The weight of Arthur’s expectant gaze on him is heavy and crushing. “You can’t expect this of me.”

“You can fight. You know the Guild. And now, you have this power,” Arthur says. “You’ve slowly started to see magic users are more than what the Guild paints them out to be. Help us.”

Merlin looks at him helplessly.

“Please. Before it’s too late.” 

* * *

 Before long, they find well-worn trails and burnt grass in forest clearings that mean others have traveled their way out of Balor to the tall cliffs. Arthur continues to teach Merlin spells and how to interpret the symbols and language of his spell book, and eventually gives it to Merlin to read at night before they sleep.

It is unnerving how quickly Merlin grows to master his magic after his few initial setbacks, and it’s not long before he can shape dancing images with fire, whip up a gust of wind from the still air around him, bring inanimate objects to life and even summon lightning, although that nearly ended up frying Arthur when Merlin had accidentally hit a tree just next to him. He’s not stopped teasing a flabbergasted Merlin about it.

They don’t fight as often, circling each other more warily after Arthur’s outburst and his voicing suspicions about Merlin’s magic being his from the very beginning. As they continue to dream erratically of their shared history of centuries past, Arthur eventually dreams of an argument their past selves had about magic. 

* * *

In it, he draws his sword at Merlin in the stony ruins of a derelict temple.  

“Traitor,” he hisses, the word echoing strangely in the large, decaying space around them. “I was worried about you when you disappeared, when no one would tell me where you were — and here you are, doing _magic._ I thought I could trust you.” His hand shakes as he keeps the sword firmly pointed at Merlin.

A fire roars between them in a chipped black bowl, glowing in unnatural rainbow hues, illuminating the crumbled remains of the steps that lead up to where Merlin is kneeling before an altar. Frozen at Arthur discovering him, Merlin turns slowly, looking so small in his flowing red robes. 

“How could I have told you?” Merlin says, not denying his sorcery, sounding both sad and brittle. “What would you have done if I told you about my magic? You hunt my kind.”

“We’ve known each other since we were children!” Arthur says, and the heartbreak he feels is real, is painful, is _there._ “You _lied_ to me. Why didn’t you tell me—”

The words are lost to Arthur as it blurs into accusations and noise, the spitting and crackling of the magical fire reminding him every so often of Merlin’s deception. He storms up to where Merlin is on top of those steps, in front of an open grimoire, and pulls him away.

“Give it up,” Arthur says fiercely, his hand encircling that thin, fragile wrist he’s come to know and love so well, the sleeve falling away from the curve of Merlin’s arm as he holds it up. “If you stop this, stop all this, we can pretend it never happened. Pretend no magic exists between us. We won’t have to let anyone know.”

Merlin yanks his hand away from Arthur, eyes wide and betrayed. “You think I haven’t been lying all my life?” He says softly. “I can’t just _stop_ this. I am magic. I can no more stop being magic than you can stop being Arthur, a knight of the King’s Order.”

Arthur drops Merlin’s hand, braces Merlin’s shoulders with his arms, locking him into place as he looks intently at Merlin, pleading. “They will execute you. Stop this tomfoolery and this descent into madness, this cavorting with demons and evil!”

“Magic isn’t that,” Merlin cries. “That’s what they taught you, but it isn’t. Magic can be good. It can be kind. Arthur, _you’re_ the fool.”

“Merlin—”

“You think I wished to be born with this? This gift, that at times seems more a curse than a blessing because of how I’m seen in the eyes of the law, the pious, when they abhor something they do not understand? When they want to _kill_ me for it?” Merlin turns away from Arthur briefly, face scrunched up with emotion, before he looks back at Arthur, meeting his gaze. The disappointment and anger in them is like a punch to the face, and it throws Arthur. “You should learn what it’s like to be one of us,” Merlin says in a whisper, his eyes glowing as the fire behind them burns brighter and brighter. “Feel the suffering we go through.”

As Arthur tosses and turns restlessly, the memories come together even clearer than before, all glimpses into the moments where Arthur discovers Merlin’s magic. One, two, ten, maybe even more lifetimes — all of them where Merlin is the one with magic, not Arthur. 

Their personalities are not so different through the thousands of years, even when Arthur is a quiet scribe and Merlin a brash hunter from a village over, or when Arthur rears birds that Merlin, a noble lord, takes an interest in. Arthur’s always angry and betrayed when he finds out, and Merlin always guilty and defiant and sorry, somehow all at the same time.

The other memories ebb away, leading back to his first dream in the temple. It’s different now, with Arthur in black armour, and Merlin in blue robes this time. Arthur sets down his helmet to walk over to Merlin in another room, who’s seated with his back to the entrance, his shoulders drawn tightly together when he notices Arthur’s footsteps.

“I’m sorry,” Arthur says. He touches Merlin’s shoulder, grasping it firmly, the velvet of the sky-blue cloth brushing softly against his fingers. “For calling you disloyal, and a liar, and... all those things I said.”

“Never thought I’d see you again after all these months, asshole.” Merlin huffs a wet laugh, pushing Arthur’s hand off him, and pushes some old parchment to the side. It breaks some spider webs clinging to the corner of the desk, and a cloud of dust flies up.

“After I left that day, I began to...” Arthur hesitates, and Merlin stills in his chair. “I began to dream. And I dreamed of us.”

“You remembered,” Merlin says quietly. “Our past.”

This surprises him. “You knew? Of Camelot, of...”

“Yes, Arthur. I began to remember a few years before you did.”

“Well.” That makes Arthur think for a moment. “I guess it’s my destiny to be plagued by your company through the years. How appealing.”

“ _Arthur_.” The warning in his tone is apparent.

“If I could take on your burden, I would,” Arthur says. “What you said before... it’s true, that I don’t know what you go through. It was unfair of me to say that, because I’ve seen what you’ve experienced. The fear, Merlin. The fires, the murders, repeating through history. I don’t know where you find the courage.”

“You get used to it.” Merlin smiles at him, and even though he doesn’t deserve it, Arthur knows he’s forgiven. “I think I got used to it the first time. Doesn’t make it right. Doesn’t ever, _ever_ make it right. But what can you do?”

He grips the edge of Merlin’s old, rickety chair. “I want to have magic. Is there a... a spell, for me to help shoulder your burden, if only for a while—”

“What are you saying?”

“It’s not for power. I want to understand.” Arthur says, shaky but determined, his palms sweating inside his sharp black gauntlets. “I want to live with magic.”

“I don’t...” Merlin stands up abruptly. “Do you realise what you’re asking of me?”

“There should be a way to give me magic, somehow.” He might come to regret this later, but right now, it’s the best idea he’s ever had across all his lifetimes. Arthur might never make up for all of his mistakes and his anger towards Merlin in the past, but maybe he could grow to understand. “You were a powerful sorcerer before, you must still be, now. Find a way.”

“You’re insane,” Merlin breathes, clutching at Arthur’s arm. “Magic doesn’t work like that. I can’t create magic for you out of thin air, it has to come from somewhere. From someone else’s magic—”

They come to the same realisation when Merlin stutters to a stop, his jaw slack. “Could you—” Arthur begins, at the same moment Merlin says, “This is too risky, we shouldn’t do this!”

“It’s perfect.” Arthur holds his hands up, laughing, his limbs casting dark shadows on the other side of the room. “I... You can have your magic back after. When we remember again, just like this. If I’m born with it, and if I can feel what you feel...” He looks unsure for a bit, but steels himself again. “It’s the least I can do.”

“That much power could kill you,” Merlin says, distraught, as if he’s seeing all kinds of potential disasters unfolding before his eyes. “I don’t think anyone’s done this before.”

Arthur waves a hysterical Merlin into silence. “But with your power,” he says, slowly. “There must be a way.”

“Won’t you please rethink this? There are so many ways this could go wrong.”

“Merlin, I... Let me do this one thing for you.”

“It’s not like I want to punish you, you twat, it’s just how things have always been. You think this is going to make it up to me? I don’t need you to, Arthur. It’s just—”

“I’ve never _understood,_ ” Arthur repeats yet again, with finality. “So many times I’ve lashed out for you for something you couldn’t help. All right? I couldn’t relate, couldn’t know. I didn’t have magic.” He steps closer to Merlin again, raising a shaky palm to Merlin’s cheek, his gauntlets clinking together softly. His voice is becoming as unsteady as his hands, stuttering as he asks for the impossible. “Empathy can only do so much. Give... give me this. Let me know you, your joy, your pain.”

Merlin closes his eyes, pressing his own hand to Arthur’s on his cheek tenderly, sighing in resignation.

“Merlin,” Arthur says. “Make me magic.”

* * *

His last words in the dream have barely faded in his mind before he’s sitting up, the shock of it jerking him back to consciousness. It’s still dark out when he steps outside, a hint of light just hovering over the edge of the horizon.

This can’t wait for morning; he has to talk to Merlin now. He’s not sure if he feels triumphant because his hunch had been right, or guilty for having taken it out on Merlin. Twigs crunching dully beneath his feet, Arthur almost casts a silence spell as he walks over to Merlin’s tent before he catches himself, smiling wryly at the idea of it now.

“Hey,” he whispers, when he peeks in, and sees Merlin curled up on his side for warmth, a bit like a cat. “Merlin, wake up.”

“Arthur?” Merlin mumbles, pulling half-heartedly at his furs to look at him, all mussed hair and drowsy confusion. “It’s not even daylight.”

He scoots in and sits at the edge of Merlin’s cloak spread on the ground. Previous royal or not, his upbringing as a child with never quite enough to eat makes him wince at the dirtied colours of the rich velvet. “I was right,” Arthur says, even if he doesn’t feel as smug about it now. 

“And you had to... wake me up for this, because?”

“You’re just grumpy that I always am.” Arthur ruffles Merlin’s hair where he’s still resting with his arm as a pillow, and Merlin swats at him.

“Yeah, yeah. Whatever.” Merlin huffs and sits up, his loose tunic nearly hanging off one shoulder. As if only registering Arthur’s words now, Merlin blinks for another few seconds before he opens his eyes fully, turning to look at Arthur. “Wait. Right about what?”

“The magic.”

Merlin bites his lip. He doesn’t look surprised, only apprehensive. 

“Why are you...” Arthur stops. “Did you know about this?”

“Just a few nights ago,” Merlin says, tucking his knees to his chest, the furs falling to his sides. “I remembered it, but I didn’t want to tell you. Didn’t think you’d believe me.”

“Why wouldn’t I?” When Merlin just raises his eyebrows meaningfully, Arthur frowns. “I’m not unreasonable!”

Merlin crosses his legs, long toes wiggling where he tucks them under his knees. “Oh, please.”

“You could’ve told me! Then I wouldn’t have...”

“Stopped being a pompous, self-pitying ass?” Merlin says dryly, but he folds his arms, a little defensive. “After that blowout when you were jealous of me for being better with your magic than you ever were, well, excuse me for not going up to you and saying, hey, just so you know, you were the one who asked for a taste of this magical pie, _your highness._ ”

“You think you’re so witty, don’t you?” Arthur grumbles. “And I wasn’t jealous,” he adds after, only to have Merlin smirk at him. “I wasn’t!”

“That was me pulling your leg, Arthur,” Merlin says, laughing, his expression softening. “It couldn’t have been easy, if your power was so unpredictable.”

Arthur scratches the back of his head, looking down. “It wasn’t that bad,” he says hesitantly, trying to remember the times his magic had hiccuped in the past. “I just always got the feeling that it wouldn’t answer my call sometimes. I was powerful, but sometimes, it depended on how lucky I was that day. Once, I broke an arm because my magic didn’t break my fall.”

Wincing, Merlin draws back from Arthur. “Ow.”

“Yeah,” Arthur sighs. “I was eleven, and it shocked me. I was still dumbfounded when Morgana finished bandaging my arm and waved a hand in front of my face. It felt a little like a betrayal, honest.”

“My magic hasn’t always worked either,” Merlin says. “I did have to master some few spells before in my previous lives—” his eyebrows knit when he says those words, as if they feel foreign, “—before I could actually get my magic to do what I needed it to do.” At this point, he notices Arthur’s face breaking into a wide grin. “Shut up.”

Arthur sits back, opening his arms as he crows, “What did I tell you?”

“The irony doesn’t escape me. Shove off.”

Their shared laughter dies down after a while, and then Merlin’s knitting his fingers together thoughtfully. “What now?”

"We done fighting, Merlin?" Arthur asks quietly. "Because if we don't really try to get our act together now, we're not going to be able to convince my uncle to help us when we finally reach the castle."

"I can't believe you're going through with this," Merlin says, fingers flying up to his neck, calming when he touches the silver chain there. Arthur tracks the movement with his eyes. He'll have to remember to ask Merlin about that someday. "I don't... I'm not ready. I need more time."

"Time's running out." Arthur presses a hand to Merlin's shaking arm. "You're ready. I believe in you."

"I can't do this, Arthur," Merlin says, gripping at the chains in his fist, the little amulet peeking from beneath his tunic. "Sure, I can do a few tricks. Make some things move, set a twig on fire. But using it in combat like I do my weapons? I know what I can do, and that's not it."

"You won't know until you try," Arthur says encouragingly, feeling Merlin tense under his touch. "You're a good fighter regardless, and it'll come to you instinctively. I learned how to fight independently of my magic, and that helped when I wanted to combine the two, helping me learn how to use it in battle when I needed it. It'll be fine."

"Ha." Merlin sets his palms on the ground, leaning back a little and stretching out his legs, looking contemplative. "What makes you so sure?"

"Greatest warlock the world has ever seen, aren't you?" Arthur murmurs, repeating words that Merlin has said to him before many lifetimes ago, both in jest and in seriousness, in playful banter and in dark moments before life-changing wars they've both been in. He takes one of Merlin's hands in his own, ignoring the way Merlin jerks in surprise when he does. "If I could manage your magic for a few years of my life, you'll be fine readjusting to your own magic that has belonged to you for centuries." Sweeping a thumb gently over Merlin's knuckles, Arthur holds Merlin's hand. "It's your magic, y'know. It's you."

Merlin squeezes his hand, in turn. "If I die because you overestimated my abilities, I'm holding you responsible."

"You're not going to die on me, you idiot. Not before we—" Arthur stops and coughs lightly, turning a little pink. Merlin’s fingers are longer than his, and very warm against his own. "Not before we sort things out properly, after... well. There are more important things now, aren’t there?”

“Really? I didn’t notice, what with people trying to kill us and everything.”

“ _Merlin_.”

“Right.” He grins at Arthur. “Not before we...?”

“Nothing,” Arthur says, not letting go of their joined hands. “Shut up.”

“So bossy,” Merlin grumbles, but they stay that way for the better part of a long, glorious hour, not saying anything at all in their embarrassed, blushing silence until the sun’s beating down on Merlin’s tent and they both agree that they have to get going. 

Merlin curls his little finger around Arthur’s for a few seconds too long, and he smiles when he looks back at Arthur before slipping out of his tent.

* * *

 

Magic becomes easier and easier for Merlin after every new incantation he learns. When Arthur’s not teaching him how to combine spells and how to strategise with them, Merlin climbs trees and thumbs the worn pages of Arthur’s spell book, his feet dangling several feet of the ground.

It takes him a while to get used to the pretentious and roundabout language of the book, but it isn’t so bad once you just read between the lines and learn the nature of a certain spell and its pronunciation. Merlin expects Arthur to be a bad teacher with his impulsive temper, but Arthur is actually remarkably patient; he forces Merlin to repeat words over and over when he doesn’t get something right, and Arthur sits Merlin down to sit and do breathing exercises while Merlin pouts and whinges through the sweltering afternoons.

“This is so pointless,” Merlin says one day, easing a crick out of his neck as he glares at Arthur, who opens one eye to glare back at him. “We’re just wasting our time, when we could be doing real stuff.”

Arthur whistles, breaking his pose and resting a hand on a propped knee. “ _Real_ stuff, huh? Think you’re good enough to leave the falcons’ nest?”

His challenging expression riles something up inside Merlin. He narrows his eyes. “You want me to face a legion of trained Guild men on my own. Teach me magical combat.”

“And to think this time just weeks ago you were so adamant on not doing this.” Arthur stands up and stretches, looking around the small space they’re in next to a bubbling brook. He picks up a long dried, fallen branch and breaks off the end so that it splinters, thwacking it experimentally against his open palm. Seemingly satisfied, he twists it around single-handedly and puts one step forward, hand firm on the branch like a staff. “Fine. Nothing like hands-on training.”

“This isn’t a little practice session, Arthur. Go all out.”

“Ha!” Arthur snorts. “Think you can handle me, little bird?”

“This little bird will have _you_ flat on your back by the end of it,” Merlin snaps back, refusing to flush when Arthur just grins at Merlin at having taken the bait. He steps back, putting a sizable distance between himself and Arthur, his boots leaving prints in the wet earth, barely flinching when Arthur makes a feint. 

“On my back, he says,” Arthur says teasingly, holding out his left hand and crooking his fingers. “What’re you going to do to me?”

 Merlin smirks back at him in answer, feeling like they’ve done this before. “You have no idea.”

“Perhaps you’d better _show_ me then, or are you all talk and no action?” Arthur taunts, jabbing out with his branch before nearly hitting Merlin with an upward sweep. 

Merlin sidesteps him neatly, used to fighting his opponents up close, but doesn’t expect Arthur to yank at his collar and slam him to the ground. He sputters, wiping the dirt at the edge of his mouth, and looks at Arthur from behind his shoulder, scandalised. “Did you just—”

“You’re the dirty fighter between us, Merlin,” Arthur says, laughing, driving the edge of his branch into the ground and leaning against it like a cane. “Don’t expect me to go easy on you.”

Irritated, Merlin whispers a spell under his breath, and gets to his feet in a flash just as stones unearth from beneath Arthur’s feet, throwing him off balance. When Arthur raises his branch again to face Merlin, Merlin’s a step ahead and behind him, heat pooling in his fingers as he pulls Arthur’s arm roughly behind him, grip hot on Arthur’s wrist. 

“Oh, don’t be gentle with me,” Merlin purrs into Arthur’s ear, his voice low. “I think you’ll find I like it rough.”

“Minx.” Arthur struggles under Merlin’s hold for a moment, before swinging his branch backwards and hitting Merlin on his arm. When Merlin yelps in pain, Arthur drops to the ground and kicks Merlin’s feet out from under him. 

When Merlin makes to get up, Arthur’s got his branch out, with the sharp end at Merlin’s throat. “Do you yield?” Arthur asks, calmly.

“I...” Merlin begins, taking a breath. He closes his eyes so that Arthur doesn’t see the inevitable golden shine of his eyes. “Do not.”

Arthur doesn’t see the heavy fruit falling from above until it lands and bounces off his right shoulder. “Ow, what the _fuck!_ ” He drops the branch, clutching at his arm, cursing. “You son of a bitch!”

“Don’t you talk about the mother I never knew like that!” Merlin tuts, calling fire to his palm. Arthur freezes for all of a few seconds before Merlin starts shooting little bursts of flame at him that fizzle out when they miss Arthur, who starts scrambling around while muttering things like, “Sneaky underhanded bastards,” when he thinks Merlin isn’t listening.

“I didn’t hear you insulting me loudly enough, perhaps you should speak up!” He narrowly misses Arthur throwing the branch directly at him, just grazing the side of his cheek. “Looks like I’m winning today, Pendragon,” Merlin says, picking the branch up where it’d landed in a bush and holding it out in front of him. “Better pick up your game.”

“I’ll teach you your place, you—” Unable to finish his sentence, Arthur quickly steps backwards when Merlin thrusts the branch out towards him, swift.  

“You’re right,” Merlin laughs in delight, as Arthur stumbles over a root that Merlin’s upended. “This really is a lot easier than I thought it would be.”

Groaning, Arthur untangles his foot from the playful wooden tendrils that have suddenly come alive and wrapped around his ankle. “Got to hand it to you,” he wheezes. “For getting creative with what you have around here. But don’t get cocky.” 

Merlin raises a skeptical eyebrow, only to be greeted with a fistful of dirt in his face. His eyes water as he rubs frantically against them to get the sting out, and in the chaos, he can’t quite hear where Arthur is with the loud, rushing sound of the brook. “That is unfair! Ugh, my _eyes.”_

“Told you,” Arthur says from what sounds like a distance away. “Now come on. If you can’t tell where I am, you’ve got to find me with magic.”

“You can _do_ such a thing?!”

“Of course you can.” Arthur’s voice is patronising, and even through the dirt in his eyes, Merlin can still visualise Arthur saying that with his insufferable smirk on his face. “You can use magic to hunt, even if you’re completely rubbish at it. It’s the same idea. Focus, try to listen and see me with your magic. You don’t need an incantation for this.”

Panic bubbles in him at the thought. “But I’ll need a spell—”

“No. Instinct. Merlin, you can do this.”

“Surely there’s something I could use?”

“You won’t need it. There’s magic in the earth, in someone’s life force, even if they’re not magic. I was able to sense people if I had a barrier up, and you can do that, too. Any time now, Merlin.”

“You are such a slavedriver.” He ignores Arthur’s sputtering, “It’s for your own good!” and squeezes his eyes shut, letting the sting fade. Merlin exhales, letting his breathing even out, the sounds of the brook and the forest around him amplified as he concentrates. “I can’t really... hear anything, Arthur, it’s all too loud,” he says, opening his eyes again when everything meshes in the background, just pure _noise._ “How would I have the time to do this if I’m fighting, anyway?”

“It’ll get easier with time. I can hear you thinking from here,” Arthur drawls, sounding like he’s somewhere else now. How could he stay so quiet? “Just stop overthinking things, and find me.”

“Easy for you to say, prat,” Merlin says, but he tries to stay still, unmoving. He continues to breathe slowly, sinking into the darkness with his eyes closed. Eventually, the birds, the brook and the leaves in the wind — they all come to a slow whisper of a stop. In that moment, Merlin _sees_ what Arthur’s been trying to tell him: the ripples of the water in the brook take lazy shapes in his mind, a muted white pulse.

The trees rumble, resonating with his magic, sturdy and lush green shades linked to the magic that rushes through the earth and beneath Merlin’s feet. The animals, the brook, the faraway heart of the mountains... he can feel them all.

Merlin turns around, suddenly, with his eyes still closed, and hurls the nearest large stone he can sense at the tree Arthur’s hiding in, right on the other side of the brook. 

Arthur crashes down, his arm out bracing for impact as he lands, but he winces anyway. “Damn it, that hurt. I didn’t expect you to find me so fast—”

He has his breath knocked out of him as Merlin tackles him to the ground, pinning his arms up above his head. “Oof.”

A small flame kindles in Merlin’s palm as he looks down at Arthur triumphantly. “I believe I have you flat on your back, _master_ , as I promised I would. Do you yield?”

Arthur rolls his eyes, just to be contrary, and Merlin flicks his nose. “Yes, all right, I yield.” When Merlin just looks at him expectantly, Arthur sighs, trying to sound as put upon as possible. “You weren’t half-bad.”

“Half-bad,” Merlin exclaims, disbelieving. “After I completely _trounced_ you!”

“Only because you cheated.” He grunts, and Merlin shifts back to let him sit up. “Because you’re a terrible, dirty, cheating sorcerer.”

“Feeling sore, are we?” Merlin holds out a hand for Arthur, who takes it and laughs. “Let’s get back to camp to get the herbs, and I’ll treat your wounds by the brook.”

“I’ll do yours if you do mine,” Arthur says, as they keep walking. He stops just at the edge of camp when Merlin bends down to get some of the herbs they’ve been collecting for poultices and medicine. “I did... just say that, didn’t I?”

Merlin coughs, but chuckles, despite himself. “You absolutely did.”

“I didn’t mean it like that,” Arthur says hastily as they make their way back to the brook, where Merlin glares daggers at Arthur until he sits down by the bank under a large tree and takes off his shirt, flinching when it brushes some particularly tender spots.

“It’s fine, Arthur, I was messing with you. Just sit back, and let me take a look at your injuries.”

“I’d hardly call them injuries,” Arthur begins, but stops at the look on Merlin’s face. He rubs the back of his neck awkwardly. “Well, all right.”

“Does it hurt?” Merlin asks quietly, trailing his fingers over the bruises and welts on Arthur’s skin that his magic had left — his, not Arthur’s anymore, and that still feels so strange.

Arthur huffs, but he exhales shakily. “I’ve had worse.”

Merlin smiles, memories of him attending to Arthur’s injuries in Camelot stirring. “Ass.” When he sweeps his thumb over the curve of Arthur’s neck, they both still. There isn’t a scar, not even a line, but the regret crashes over him anew as he  leans down and presses his forehead to Arthur’s, just thumbing that spot there where he’d nicked Arthur’s neck with his dagger all those days ago.

“I’m sorry.” For everything, Merlin doesn’t say. For hurting you, hating you. For giving you the magic, for making you live the life you should never have had to, even if the both of us agreed to it.

Arthur closes his eyes and clasps his palm over Merlin’s hand on his neck, warm breath puffing against Merlin’s lips. “Please. You couldn’t kill me, even if you tried.”

He takes the olive branch for what it is. “You make a terrible warlock,” he says softly, chuckling, but he’s glad his magic had protected Arthur so far, even from himself.

The very thought of him coming so close to killing Arthur in this life chills him to the bone.

“I grew up magic in this life, you little brat,” Arthur says, slapping Merlin’s hand away and making a face at him. “I could do magic before you even started fighting, I’m certain. Respect your elders.”

“Whatever you say, old man.” Moving to sit behind Arthur, he applies the poultice to the dip between Arthur’s neck and shoulder, massaging it in. Merlin stops when Arthur hisses softly. “Am I hurting you?”

“No, just... it’s fine. It just burns.” He sighs when Merlin dips a cloth into the stream and wipes at another cut, but Merlin can hear him gritting his teeth. A memory comes to the front of his mind, unbidden, of treating Arthur and his battle wounds back in the time of Camelot, and the other wars they’ve fought together. Arthur had always been quiet, never letting on as to how much pain he was feeling. It felt as though sometimes Arthur would rather bite his tongue off than show weakness.

“Let me try something,” Merlin murmurs, reciting a healing spell Arthur had taught him. His fingers glow briefly, before he presses them against the poultice on Arthur’s cut. 

Arthur tilts his head back, allowing Merlin access to a spot on his neck. “That’s... it’s never felt like this when I’ve used it on myself.”

Sweeping the wet rag over the nastiest-looking of Arthur’s bruises, Merlin repeats the spell, feeling cool air around his fingers as he trails them across Arthur’s skin, watching the skin heal. “I guess it’s different with someone else’s magic.”

Arthur turns to look at him, incredulous. “Technically, we’ve used the same magic.”

“Stop moving and fussing about.”

“Yes, yes.” Arthur obeys, and lets Merlin dab at his arm, sighing at Merlin’s touch. “It doesn’t hurt as much anymore.”

Merlin looks up from where he’s kneeling in front of Arthur, and smiles a little shyly. “That’s good.” While they’d gone all out, he hadn’t wanted to really deal such a number on Arthur, but he had.

“Um,” Arthur starts, scratching at his cheek with his forefinger before looking at Merlin. “While we’re talking about this, I... I’m glad you’re here, Merlin.”

There’s no mistaking the raw sincerity in Arthur’s words, and Merlin stops just as he’s cleaning a cut on Arthur’s jaw. “Hmm?”

“What with everything that’s happened, and our memories—” He seems unsure of what to say, but gently takes Merlin’s hand with the rag and clasps it between his own in his lap. “There’s no one else I’d rather fight with.”

“Arthur,” Merlin says. Arthur’s eyes are intense and uncertain in the tree’s shade, and it makes Merlin feel a little giddy, caught up in this moment. “There’s no one else I’d rather fight _for_.” 

Blinking at Merlin, Arthur gapes. “Well.”

“Well, what?”

“You can be so useless,” Arthur says, and shushes Merlin when he sputters. “But sometimes, you just know how to say all the right things.” He leans forward and cups Merlin’s face, kissing him right there under the falling golden leaves.

  
  



	3. Chapter 3

The smooth flat stones that line the path leading up to the small village of the Red Peaks are varying hues of reddish-brown, and Arthur has to roll his eyes at them when they step out of the shadow of a looming arch at the entrance and are greeted by a bustling, noisy crowd of people. “Red way stones on a red bridge for a red village atop a red mountain,” he says dryly, looking back at the red-coloured bridge they’d just used to cross. “Such creativity.”

“You’ve got to admit, it matches,” Merlin says, looking around to find that yes, everything really is red with the occasional splotches of beige and white, except for the gray castle. “Maybe the people who first built this place took colours very seriously.”

It’s a small place, the village of Red Peaks, with little brick and wooden houses scattered in haphazard patterns around a large fountain in the village square. Merlin gets apples for the horses, pressing his cheek to his mare’s neck when she whickers happily. 

“I remember playing here as a child. I fell once into the water when I was trying to balance myself on the edge, right here. Or maybe Morgana pushed me in, I can’t remember.” Arthur says, jerking his head towards the massive copper dragon statue in the middle of it with water gushing out of its open maw. It’s a fierce thing, reared up on its hind legs, its tail coiled and its wings outstretched. “When she brought us here, my mother said that the villagers used to wish upon it. They’d throw a coin in and pray to old Kilgharrah.”

Merlin touches the sides of the fountain, drawing his finger against the worn scratches and markings. It must’ve been grand once, catching the sunlight’s gleam, before the rust took hold. “Kilgharrah... an interesting name. I feel like I’ve heard it somewhere before.”

“Has that familiar ring to it, doesn’t it?” Arthur dips his hand in the fountain, and lets the water fall through his fingers, trickling down his arm. 

The castle is much closer now, a huge monument up a long, winding path. Merlin sighs, and makes a soft clicking sound at his horse, who perks up and lets Merlin get astride her. “You mentioned your uncle wasn’t... very fond of you. How were things when you visited that first time, as a child?”

“Ha.” Locking his linked hands behind his head, Arthur looks up and squints at the bright sky, looking at the castle of the Red Peaks . “It’s been ages. He wasn’t very happy when we came for a few months, but we didn’t really have a choice — the Guild raided my village after my father died, looking for sorcerers. My mother took us and fled, but it was a near thing.”

Merlin leans against his mare while Arthur gets back on his stallion, too. “Not many can say they’ve survived the one Guild raid, let alone multiple raids. And yet, here you are.”

“To be honest, I’ve lost count of our narrow escapes. We got lucky that first time, you know? Morgana distracted our would-be killer while I frantically looped a rope around his feet with magic to trip him over. Then, mother knocked him out with a mace.”

He can just imagine little Arthur doing that. “Wow, your mother was something.”

“One hell of a woman,” Arthur agrees, with a smile, and they set off in a slow trot up the path. “She took us here for shelter and wanted to introduce me and Morgana to our grandparents, but they’d passed away. So... it was just uncle Agravaine, whose expression upon seeing us at his door could’ve curdled milk.”

“He sounds like a joy to be around.” 

“You don’t even know the half of it.”

“Arthur, he...” Merlin hesitates. “Do you remember Agravaine in Camelot? I’m not sure he’d take to you any better now than he did when he first betrayed you all those lifetimes ago to avenge your mother.”

Arthur’s expression hardens. “Yes, but circumstances change, Merlin. I believe he really loved my mother, and was deeply affected by her leaving and her death. And we share a bloodline—”

“No, I get you.” Merlin rubs his eyes, worried. “Just be careful, anyway.”

He gets his breath knocked out of him when he’s pulled against Arthur’s chest again, his hair getting thoroughly ruffled while they walk.

Bigger houses, leafy trees and lush gardens with beautiful flowers and plants line the steep path up to the castle, framing a wide canal next to it. The castle gate is wide open and they both opt to walk inside instead after that, leading their steeds by their reins as they look around.

It’s busy in the small courtyard, with servants and some knights with black cloaks running around amidst workhorses and stacks of hay. Merlin almost makes a quip about how they should hurry up and talk to Arthur’s uncle, but the look on Arthur’s face stops him. Arthur scratches the back of his neck, a little secret wistful smile on his face, and Merlin has to stop himself from smiling stupidly at that, too. 

“Sorry, it’s just been so long.” Arthur sounds full of wonder and disbelief. “It wasn’t really home for me at all, but I had some good memories here, even after we were turned away at the gate when we came back six years ago. How can a place change so much and yet stay the same?”

Merlin thinks of the Guild stronghold, mere days away from the Red Peaks, and how the old castle has been around for ages since the first Pendragons had ruled Camelot — since King Arthur. His memories toy with his mind, blending the images of old Camelot and new together, sometimes confusing him. He remembers being a scrawny child in a too-big tunic walking around at night and practicing his stealth while some of their caretakers snoozed on chairs in the corridors, and he remembers walking down those same corridors with a bright red scarf around his neck and a tray of food he nearly upends when he finally reaches Arthur’s chambers a little after sunrise. “I think I get what you mean,” he says instead.

A young man near some horses eventually notices them walking around aimlessly, and lopes over in easy strides. “Hello, sirs. You looking for someone?”

“Yes,” Arthur says, looking amused at the stableboy’s sheer enthusiasm. “I’m looking for my uncle, Lord Agravaine De Bois.”

The stableboy folds his skinny arms and fixes Arthur with a suspicious look, his affable air completely gone. “We get lots of you people claiming to be related to the Lord and his family all the time, you know. People trying to sell their wares in the castle, or wanting to come in and steal things... the Lord ain’t got no family, so you’re wasting your breath.”

“I suppose I can’t blame you for that.” Arthur sighs. “I’m—”

“He’s the splitting image of Lady Ygraine, is what.” A knight walks over to them and takes off his helm and frowning at the stableboy. “Lord Agravaine’s late sister. Run along!” The boy’s eyes widen, and he squeaks, “Yessir!” before running off, nearly stumbling over his feet as he does so.

“It’s been a long time, Arthur,” the redheaded knight says with a grin as he turns to Arthur, a complete change from his stern disposition with the stableboy. “I nearly didn’t recognise you.”

It takes a longer time for recognition to kick in for Arthur, but after a few seconds, he laughs and breaks into a smile. “Leon!” Drawing the knight into a tight embrace, Arthur pats his back heartily. “Don’t you look smart. Rising up in the ranks, are you?”

“First knight of our battalion here.” Leon turns and grasps the edge of his cloak, proudly displaying the silver-threaded crest that stands out brightly against the black of the cloth. Merlin leans closer to inspect it — the crest consists of an alder tree, sturdy and proud, with tendrils and vines around it on an intricate shield with two swords crossed. “We’re probably not as big as you might think, but we’re a force to be reckoned with. Many of the other young knights and squires you trained with as a child have gone on to become fine warriors in their own right.”

“First knight.” Arthur looks towards a sectioned area beyond the courtyard, where great golden clumps of straw have been tied to posts. “Seems like just yesterday you were training me there. I’ve been gone a while,” he says, almost with longing. 

“You have.” Leon turns to Merlin, holding out a hand. “I don’t believe I caught your name.”

Merlin beams, and takes Leon’s arm in a firm grasp in introduction. “I’m Merlin, and I’m traveling with Arthur.”

They shake, and Leon guffaws. “Can’t imagine how you were able to stand him.”

Throwing his hands up, Merlin widens his eyes comically. “Finally! Someone who gets it.”

“I resent that,” Arthur quips, glaring at them both.

“You know I’m right.” Sobering up, Leon adopts a grim expression. His hands drop to his sides, one resting lightly on his sword. “I’m sorry to hear about your mother. We heard about her taking ill when her last letter came, asking for his Lordship to see her one last time, and then when you wrote us—”

“He didn’t, you know.” Arthur folds his arms, knitting his brows. “She was delirious in her last days, begging to see her brother, but uncle never came. We waited and waited, keeping an ear out for horses coming down the road, but all we heard was silence.” 

“We...” Leon closes his eyes briefly, as if remembering. “We tried to defy him, to tell him to go. We loved her Ladyship, and we knew that deep down, Lord Agravaine still cared about her too. He was angry, though, and bitter; he punished those of us who would speak of it for weeks after that, and we’d hear him destroying things in his room, his study. By the time we got _your_ letter, it’d been too late.”

Clenching his fists, Arthur raises his voice. “She was his only sister!”

“He is not a forgiving man, Arthur. And proud. Her leaving the DuBois estate really took a toll on him, and he’s never been the same since.” There’s a black flag with the Dubois crest on it flying proudly on top of one of the castle towers, and Leon looks at it. Merlin automatically follows his gaze. It looks small and lonely against the great castle, rippling in the wind. “I believe he regrets his inaction deeply, and he might want to make it up to you.” 

Arthur looks down and away from Leon at the ground, gritting his teeth. “Morgana and I came here after her death, and he turned us away at the gate. I wasn’t expecting gold or gilt, but we were bedraggled and exhausted, with nowhere to go. His own niece and nephew, and he turned us away,” he repeats slowly. “When we needed him. No one else saw us, or at least knew us well enough to remember that we arrived. If he wanted to make it up to me, I don’t even think he tried at all.” 

Leon coughs, and predictably, changes the subject. Not that Merlin blames him, with Arthur’s face so stormy and dark. “So, what brings the two of you here?”

“We need militia.” Merlin notes the fighting knights in the training ground, watches as one with dark wavy hair pummels another to the ground before recovering his stance, making a cocksure come hither gesture at the other knights, twirling his spear offhandedly in his other hand. There’re probably more of them than just the small gathering of knights training there, if what Arthur’s said about the barracks’ size is true. “Assistance. It’s urgent.”

Confused, Leon draws back, alarm on his face. “What’s happening, and why do you need our knights and soldiers?”

Arthur drags Leon to the side, back behind a broken wagon in the shadow of a great stone wall. He  ushers them into the darker area of the shadow, where no one can see them, and keeps a palm on the wall as he looks around to make sure they’re not overheard.

“You remember my magic,” he says quietly, and Leon nods.

“Hard not to, when you’d use it to trip me up during training, you cheat.” 

Merlin side-eyes Arthur until Arthur notices, and mouths _hypocrite._

Arthur quirks his lips upward in response, and returns his attention to Leon. “I know I didn’t tell the rest, but it’s the reason I need my uncle’s help. Your help, along with the rest of the knights you have here in Red Peaks, and any other soldiers you may be able to spare.” He takes a deep breath. “I’m with the Resistance. We’re going to take down the Guild.”

“Are you out of your bloody mind?” Leon whispers, horrified, almost in an angry hiss. “The Guild— I’d thought you and Morgana would keep a low profile. They’ve been increasingly relentless these last few years, even coming to our doors to search for sorcerers here when they haven’t before, due to the DuBois’ influence. If you and the others were fighting back...”

“It’d be pretty difficult to keep a low profile seeing that I’m actually _heading_ the Resistance,” Arthur says dryly, before gripping Leon’s arm so hard his knuckles turn white. “We don’t have a choice. Never did. They’ve ruined so many lives, and they will eventually run this kingdom to the ground. The Guild will stop at nothing to continue this oppression.” He spits. “The bastards took Morgana.”

“They _what.”_ Merlin can see the colour drain from Leon’s face.

“To use against me,” Arthur says. “To bait me. I know it’s a trap, but I’ll be damned if I go there unprepared. If we can get troops together for this, we can break the other magic users out and find the Elders. End all this.”

“I don’t know about this, Arthur,” Leon begins, before he stops. “Wait, break the other magic users out? I thought they just executed people for sorcery.”

“No,” Merlin cuts in abruptly. He feels a chilling anger rise in him, the pressure of it threatening to burst through his skin. “No, they — they keep sorcerers there. For... future use.”

It’s a moment before he realises he’s balled his hands into fists without realising, and that he’s shaking. Arthur looks at him strangely, questioning and lingering, while Leon just gapes before collecting himself, somehow sensing that Merlin doesn’t want to pursue that line of conversation any further. “I trust you, Arthur,” Leon says, his voice steady, placing a gloved hand on Arthur’s arm. “And I agree that they’ve gone too far. They killed Elyan’s father the other day, accusing him of sorcery, but he’s never had a spark of magic in his life. It’s just... this is no small feat, you realise that? The castle is strong, and their guards — are you absolutely _sure —_ ”

“I am.” Merlin’s learned the hard way that there’s no arguing with Arthur once he sounds like that, words clanging like iron, his eyes cool and determined. “I just wanted to let you know first, my friend. And now, I’ll have to persuade my uncle, if he’ll deign to meet me.”

Leon hefts his helmet up under one arm, and gestures to the one of the towering stone arches with stairs leading up to the keep and the tallest tower of the castle. “I’ll take you to him.”

The inside of the castle is gray still, but with little specks of colour in the vivid tapestries lightly dusted with cobwebs that Merlin can see hanging around every corner, scarlet and silver and green. Portraits of various Dubois family members through the years hang on the walls of the long corridor Leon guides them through, and Merlin can see little echoes of family resemblances whenever he sees a woman with a sharp nose just like Arthur’s, or a man with the same stern set to his jaw that Arthur does.

He nearly trips over a vase once or twice, earning a snort from Arthur for his troubles. Sometimes, Arthur stops them to point something out to Merlin, such as a way away from the hall leading up to his old room, or the library which his mother had loved. There’re servants — friendly, but surprisingly few and far in between, curtseying and bowing to them as they pass with their hands full of linen or food trays.

Merlin’s turning the corner when he almost misses it. There’s something that calls out to him from the picture, and when he steps back, tugging at Arthur’s sleeve, he sees the most glowing and newest piece in that collection of portraits yet. It’s a large painting of a family, all seated on plush, golden-framed chairs: a mother and father are seated in the middle, with their two children flanking them. The young man is stoic, a forced smile captured in the brushstrokes that immortalised his face, and on the other side of his parents sits a radiant young woman with golden hair.

He knows that smile, and the way those eyes crinkle. Merlin leans forward, just holding his fingers a whisper away from the surface of the oils, marveling at Arthur’s mother in her youth, smiling brilliantly in the painting, simply stunning in her dark red gown.

“She’s so lovely. You look just like her,” he marvels, because if she were built just a little stockier, if Arthur’s face was a little sharper, they would’ve practically been twins. 

“Thanks,” Arthur says, smiling, albeit a little sadly. “I get that a lot. Or, well, used to.”

They continue following Leon down the corridors, and when he’s not looking, Merlin pulls lightly at Arthur’s left hand and hides it behind his back, linking his fingers through Arthur’s squeezing for the shortest of moments. Surprised, Arthur looks at him, and Merlin just lets go while shaking his head, still smiling.

“His Lordship is dining,” Leon says, after he accosts a startled maid who stammers out where she’s seen Agravaine last. “Shall we?”

That’s how they find Agravaine in the dining hall, clad in shades of dark gray and sitting alone in a high-backed chair at the end of a long darkwood table, a small platter of food in front of him while the light streams in from the tall stained glass windows. He’s putting a goblet of wine to his lips with his eyes closed when they enter.

Arthur swallows. “Uncle.”

Agravaine’s eyes instantly open, snapping to where Arthur, Merlin and Leon are at the open doors of the hall. He takes his time drinking before he puts down his goblet and appraises them for a moment.

Leon nods his head and bows slightly. “Lord Agravaine, Arthur Pendragon, son of—”

“You may dispense with the formalities, Sir Leon,” Agravaine interrupts smoothly, and yes, that is the word Merlin would associate with him — he’s always had a smooth voice, even back when he’d betrayed Arthur back in Camelot, a bit too smooth, and he has a way of talking that would put a great many people at ease just by opening his mouth. 

So, naturally, Merlin distrusts him.

He looks Merlin over with a calculating expression, giving nothing away, before fixing his gaze on Arthur’s face. “To what do I owe the pleasure, nephew? And I see you’ve brought a... friend.”

Even Arthur looks unnerved by his pleasantness. “Yes, this is my friend, M—”

“William, sir.” Merlin says, a bit too brightly. He’s not usually nervous, but Agravaine’s looking at him like he suspects something, and Merlin can’t risk anything. He’d thought being out here in the Red Peaks would’ve been safe enough, because while Camelot was merely a day’s ride away, it wasn’t usually a place the Guild would frequent. As Leon mentioned, the raids here had only started happening recently, and it wasn’t likely that they’d come here to look for Arthur if they didn’t know of his background. It’s not like Merlin’s name itself is that well-known as compared to his codename, Emrys — which also has more prophetic connotations now, joy — but he’s the kind of man who prefers to err on the side of caution by not giving it out too freely.

“My friend, William,” Arthur continues, as if he wasn’t interrupted. Leon glances at Merlin, but doesn’t comment on it. “Uncle Agravaine, I’ve come here on some urgent business, but that can wait. I hope you are well?”

“I am, I am.” Agravaine gestures at the table, and motions for some maids and servants to move towards three chairs, which they promptly pull out. “Come, please join me. I sometimes dine alone for lunch, and good company is hard to come by.”

Arthur turns to Merlin, his eyebrows raised, as if to say _don’t look at me, I’m just as confused as you are, if not more._ Merlin just shrugs and tilts his head next to him, so Arthur takes the chair directly at Agravaine’s right while Merlin sits down.

When the servants bring out more plates and a selection of food and fruits with fresh bread for them, they make careful small talk about the unchanging weather and taxes. Arthur is forthright and Agravaine seems jarringly charming enough, until Agravaine speaks again. “You mentioned urgent business, earlier. What nature of such a business would bring you all the way here to your mother’s childhood home?”

“I... need cavalry,” Arthur says, “and soldiers on foot. Armed support.”

“From the house of DuBois? These are difficult times, Arthur, and I cannot simply provide such substantial assistance when I have the people under my charge to look out for. What battle are you trying to fight, that you would come to me for this?”

“The Guild has taken my sister, and I need to rescue her.” He fixes Agravaine with a challenging stare, daring him to say one wrong word against that. 

“Morgana?” At this, Agravaine sits up. Perhaps Morgana was his favourite of the two of them, Merlin thinks, watching Agravaine fret.

“Yes. I know how much of a shine you took to her when she was here,” Arthur says. “She’s in grave danger, and I’m worried about her. We also have a much bigger reason than just rescuing Morgana — after all, we can strike two birds with one stone. Uncle, have you heard of the Resistance?”

Where he’d looked stricken at the news of Morgana before, Agravaine’s lips now curl slightly in distaste. “The bunch of miscreants stirring up havoc in the north of Albion, causing the Guild to crack down on our townships and cities even more than ever before? Of course I have. They’ve been giving us nothing but grief. If they’d not started their futile little campaign against the Guild, they wouldn’t be lashing out at the rest of us.”

“I’m not sorry for that,” Arthur says coolly, and Agravaine’s eyes widen. Merlin thinks he hears Leon let out a low, surprised whistle. “I formed the Resistance for a reason, because their purging of sorcerers and suspected sorcerers for their dogmas and ideals has spiraled into madness.”

“ _You’re_ the reason—”

“Uncle, hundreds of people in the Red Peaks look to you to protect them. Are you saying that the sorcerers in their midst deserve death for the simple crime of possessing magic, even if they’ve done no wrong?”

Agravaine seems to struggle with this for a while. “...no,” he says at last. “But if it was choosing between condemning a few sorcerers or the majority —”

“This is unnecessary,” Arthur snaps. “It’s cruel and unjust. We have as much right to live our lives in peace and contentment as anybody else, without worrying about the drums that beat before the hunt!”

“Of course a _warlock_ would defend his actions thus,” Agravaine says. When Arthur looks at him in shock, Agravaine continues, “Your mother told me about you and Morgana. Don’t you see the bigger picture? The Guild has been in place for over a hundred years, and has set a new and richer era for the people all over the kingdom. They’ve done so much for us, our family. They’re the reason you’re here today, because without the peace they’ve restored for us upon overthrowing that last terrible member of the monarchy, the DuBois family might’ve just been burned to the ground.”

“And you think they won’t do that when they keep persecuting and oppressing those with magic?” Arthur asks, disbelieving. “It’s not just ratting out one or two sorcerers in each village. There’re a few of them, entire families, who have done nothing to deserve their punishments and their deaths.” 

“You would abuse my cavalry and soldiers to fight a lost cause?” Agravaine shoots back. “Yes, it’s unfortunate, but I have to look at my people too. Those who aren’t sorcerers. They’re happy with the Guild in power, and understand that one of the few things they have to do to appease the Guild is to just... just accept their stance on magic users. Even if it means killing the rest.”

“Are you listening to yourself?” Arthur whispers. “Magic is a part of the world. Killing people who are born with it won’t erase it so easily, because it is a constant. More lives will be lost in stamping out this invisible threat that the Guild has made magic users out to be. Magic users fight back when they’re cornered, when they’re faced with certain death. If someone was to draw a sword at you for no reason, wouldn’t you draw your own to protect yourself? They’re only human, these people. My people, and yours, too. Everyone’s.”

Chastened, Agravaine clears his throat, leaning back in his seat. “To be schooled on something so important by my own nephew... I may not completely agree, but Ygraine would have wanted me to help you save your sister. However, she is not I, and I must give this manner grave thought. Sending my knights with you would be as good as declaring that my allegiance lies with the Resistance by painting the message on every wall in every street in Camelot.”

Arthur nods grudgingly, even though his eyes narrow at Agravaine mentioning his mother’s name. “I understand. It is important for me to save Morgana as soon as possible, but I would not want you to rush your decision. Take as long as you need.” 

Agravaine looks directly at Arthur, his expression unreadable. “I am sorry about Ygraine’s death, Arthur; losing her hurt me deeply.”

Arthur drops the fork he’s been toying with to the table with a clang, and his chair scratches loudly against the floor as he stands, flushed red with anger. “With all due respect, uncle —”

Holding up a hand, Agravaine shakes his head. “No, please. Please, Arthur, hear me out.” Arthur grips the edge of the table lightly, but sits back down, eyes not leaving Agravaine. Opposite them, an unnerved Leon sits stock-still, observant but completely silent.

“I was wrong,” Agravaine says, pushing his goblet of wine away before linking his hands together in front of him, dipping his head in a show of remorse. “And angry. I’ve been angry for a long, long time, Arthur, ever since Ygraine ran away to marry her penniless knight. He’d had naught to his name but his swords and inadequate lineage, and I was angry that she defied my parents.” He steeples his fingers, looking ahead of him and outside the window, eyes unfocused. “I was angry that she left, without saying a word. Her being the favoured child, I was all right with. Her being the one everybody loved, I was all right with, because I loved her too. I loved my sister so fiercely, until — until she abandoned us. I thought we were family.”

“So did she. She loved you, uncle,” Arthur says, and Merlin can see him struggling to contain his fury at Agravaine, all the things he cannot say. “I’m not excusing what she did, but later... she may have been ill, but she died too of a broken heart when you would not see her. Why? Why didn’t you go to her when she needed you most? She was _dying!_ ”

Agravaine turns towards Arthur, Leon and Merlin’s presence at the table forgotten. He grabs Arthur’s hand tightly, and Arthur flinches, almost jerking away. “I know! I know, Arthur. It haunts me every day.” He looks up at Arthur, and by _gods_ , the man is crying, with great tears falling down his cheeks. “I dream of Ygraine, happy and young at this very table, before she reaches out to me on her deathbed, calling for me in a voice rendered so soft and weak I barely recognise it. Sometimes I dream of our last fight, before she stormed out of here with you and Morgana, and I drown in regret because it’s the very last memory I’ll ever have of her.” 

“She was sorry you fought, and wanted to reconcile in her last hours,” Arthur says, ploughing bitterly and mercilessly on. “It was her very last wish, to see you. You couldn’t even... you had the means to. You just chose not to.”

“You’re right,” Agravaine says simply, tiredly, his shoulders slumping. He looks smaller now, as if his will to live has faded away in his pained sigh. “No apologies I offer can ever be enough, Arthur. But know this: I suffer every day knowing I was too late, and that she is lost to me forever.”

“She is lost to the _both of us_. It’s not about whose loss feels greater, Agravaine.” Using his uncle’s given name for the first time as if it’s an acrid thing in his mouth, Arthur places a hand on Merlin’s shoulder and stands. “My mother is gone, and nothing you say will _ever_ change that. Come, William. Let’s leave.”

Pushing his chair back in alarm as Arthur starts to walk away, Leon works his way around Agravaine to chase after them. He catches Arthur’s arm before he can make it out of the hall with his long, agitated strides over the carpet. “Arthur —” 

“It’s fine, Leon. We’ll find a way.” Arthur pulls away from Leon, shaking his long blue sleeve free. “Thank you for everything.”

The servants are about to shut the large doors behind them when Agravaine’s voice rings out: “Wait!”

Arthur comes to a stop, with Merlin a few steps ahead of him. When Merlin turns around, he sees Arthur frozen in place there under the doors’ arch with a warring mix of emotions on his face, a rigid silhouette against the bright light flooding in.

“You’ll have your soldiers.” Agravaine doesn’t so much as move to look at them, seeming even more unreadable now with his profile partially hidden by shadows. “Leon.”

“Yes, my lord,” Leon says automatically, bowing slightly.

“Pick a handful of your finest troops to assist Arthur with his... endeavour. Even if it is foolish, I will not see my sister’s son die for nothing.”

Arthur whips around now to face his uncle. “I would rather die fighting,” he shouts, “than knowing I have abandoned those who trust in me to protect them!”

“Don’t make me question my decision, Arthur,” Agravaine says, cool ice to Arthur’s spitting fire. “This isn’t for you. It’s for Ygraine.”

“It’s to make you feel better,” Arthur says softly, under his breath. He’s learned to pick his battles, Merlin thinks with some admiration. His pride isn’t getting in the way of him doing what needs to be done. 

“You are of course, welcome to stay the night, if you wish to depart with them first thing in the morning.” While his voice seems to suggest anything but, someone in Agravaine’s position must be gracious. “I’ll get rooms arranged for you.”

Even though they have more than enough gold, there’s no denying sleeping in the castle is a much safer option than in any of the lodgings they could’ve opted for down in low town. “How obliging of you,” Merlin gushes, trying to defuse the tension by affecting an air he’s seen many noble women adopt when he mingled with them. It works like a charm, because he hears Arthur’s muffled snort next to him, even if it sounds like his heart isn’t in it. “We appreciate your hospitality, my lord.”

“...Yes.” The distasteful expression on Agravaine’s face is back. Merlin has the sudden impression he’s being looked over like a young urchin from the poor alleys of Camelot, and that he’s been found unworthy. Agravaine can just sod it, Merlin thinks, because he’s pretty sure he owns some furs and furniture that’re more expensive than some things in this tacky dining hall put together. Merlin _had_ lived a pretty cushy life before everything had gone to hell. “Well, talk to Matilda, Merlin, and tell her I said you were to have rooms.”

“We will,” Arthur says shortly, and pulls Merlin out of the hall. “How _obliging_ of you!” He mimics Merlin’s voice as he leads Merlin down a wider corridor, presumably to the servants’ quarters, and Merlin rolls his eyes at the exaggerated falsetto. “He’s giving us rooms, not the entire castle.”

“He is lending you his army, last I checked,” Merlin points out, grinning as he tucks his hands in his pockets. At least they have lodging for the night. Merlin can’t quite put his thumb on it, but he has a niggling feeling about something Agravaine mentioned, even if he can’t remember what it was.

Arthur makes a swift wave of his hand. “Details.”

They part ways with Leon later, when he has to go see to his knights. “We’ll work on a strategy tomorrow, Arthur,” he says before he leaves, thumping Arthur solidly on his arm. “For tonight, take it easy. You must’ve had a hard time of it.”

“So what do you intend to do?” Merlin asks quietly, after they’ve talked to Matilda, a stout and matronly lady who gushes at Arthur first about how much he looks like Lady Ygraine before bustling off to yell at some other wide-eyed servants beneath her station to “—get the rooms _ready!_ If they’re not sparkling by the time Lord Pendragon and his acquaintance reach the doors, so help me—”

“We’ll storm their keep, but I’ll need some help from you on that front.” Arthur walks on beyond an alcove to a little balcony overlooking the sea, a wide glittering expanse of blue. He turns around and leans against it, lounging, disheveled but pensive. “You seem like a lad who would’ve gotten up to a lot of trouble in his youth. Any secret passages there that you’re aware of?”

Merlin pretends to bristle, folding his arms and trying to look stern. “I can’t believe you’re accusing me of being a mischief-maker. I’ll have you know I was an exemplary and exceptionally studious student.”

Arthur just raises his eyebrows, unimpressed, and waits.

“There are several tunnels underneath the castle that lead outside to the mountains and some forests at the border of Camelot,” Merlin admits, rolling his eyes. “There’re also some in the castle itself, some that I explored as a child, and some that I found when I was your manservant.”

“What could you possibly have been doing in those secret tunnels?” Arthur asks, skeptical.

“Conducting a great many clandestine affairs with errant knights and ladies of the court behind your back when you weren’t looking,” Merlin replies, deadpan. “I was trying to protect you from all the magical attacks in the kingdom, you idiot. I had to be stealthy about it.”

“Mmm," Arthur mumbles. "Still think you could've just told me about your magic. You reckon we could smuggle our soldiers in that way?”

“I couldn't take the risk." There had been so much at stake, even then. But Arthur's betrayed look haunts him sometimes, and sometimes Merlin wonders what could've happened if he'd approached things differentl. "Well... there’re a couple only big enough for children, but I remember some tunnels with really high ceilings we could use.” He walks over to Arthur, and rests his arms as he leans against the dusty stone railing too, taking in the late evening sun as it darkens over the horizon. “They’re pretty wide. We can get forty through, easy.”

Arthur sighs. “We’ll have to make do.”

“I can draw a map for you,” Merlin offers. “A makeup of the castle and its rooms. I’m sure there’s parchment about.”

“Well! There are times you _can_ be helpful, Merlin. Who would’ve guessed?” Arthur smiles. “Thank you. When you do that, I can talk to Leon about forming a strategy.”

“I’m always helpful, you ass.”

“No, no, you’re not...”

They stay there until the sun sets, casting a red light on the sea and the rocks near the cliffs, bickering. That’s how Matilda finds them, bright-eyed and pink-cheeked in the crisp ocean air, two young men against a blazing sky that look like they can take on the world.

* * *

 

Merlin knocks on Arthur’s door later that night, pulling at his long tunic and coughing a little self-consciously. “It’s me.”

“Come in,” Arthur calls from inside, and Merlin does. Arthur’s room is a little bigger than his, but decorated very much the same way, with a large desk at the end near the window, cozy rugs piled near the fire, and little embroidered cushions strewn about. Tapestries line the walls too, with some mounted animal heads and sculptures. 

In the middle of the room is a massive four-poster bed, with see-through drapes drawn back and secured around the wooden poles with long black tassels. Arthur sits there cross-legged, frowning at the map Merlin gave to him earlier. He looks up when Merlin approaches him, hair messy and still wet from the bath a servant had drawn for him, with a loose sleep shirt on. “Hello,” Arthur says, placing the map on a small table beside his bed. “Can’t sleep?”

“Hello yourself,” Merlin says, and they both laugh, Merlin a little bashfully. The firelight casts a warm, rich light on Arthur, making him look even more compelling than usual. Not that Arthur needs to know that. “Yeah. You’re planning to ride tomorrow?”

“I’m worried about Morgana.” Arthur walks over to the table and invites Merlin to sit. “You... wouldn’t tell me what the Guild does to their captives, but whatever it is, it can’t be anything good. They’re trying to lure me to go there, but they just have to keep her alive. They can do all manner of terrible things to her, even torture her, as long as she doesn’t die.”

In his mind, he sees Freya falling to her knees before him when he released her from her cage, too weak to stand, eyes wild and fearful. _No, Merlin, they’ll kill you—_

“I’m sorry.”

“We’ll have to get her out of there. If they harmed her—”

“Have confidence, Arthur. We’ll save her.”

They look at the fire for a while, the crackling and spitting sounds filling the room, until Arthur turns to Merlin. “Hey. If we don’t... If I don’t get to talk to you again after tomorrow—”

“Just what are you saying?” Merlin says. “You’re not going to say goodbye now, you idiot. I won’t let you.”

Arthur smiles wanly. “Doesn’t matter. It probably wasn’t supposed to end like this, but... who knows what’s going to happen tomorrow?” He links his fingers tightly, looking down, as if a great burden has settled on his shoulders and he can’t lift his head up anymore. “We’ve got to be prepared, whatever happens.”

Reaching his hands up and behind his neck, Merlin unfastens the hook of his silver chain, and holds it up so that Arthur can see it. He’s so familiar with it now he can recognise it by touch — the rust on the silver chain, the three ellipses that intersect in the middle of the amulet, framed by delicate patterns. And, now that he has magic, he can feel the slivers of power running through it like a shiver, from time to time. “I... need to tell you something.”

Merlin hands it to Arthur, who runs his thumb over the thin circle. “This is...”

“I know I lied to you at the start. I don’t want anymore secrets between us, so... I want to tell you why I left the Guild,” Merlin says. Arthur’s eyes widen, and he sets the small amulet down on the table. “You were right, that time. I wasn’t lying about my wife.”

“What happened?” Arthur asks quietly. 

“I didn’t know she had magic,” Merlin says, looking down at his hands, opening and closing them. “Our story wasn’t anything too interesting, at least not at the start. We met at a festival when she asked me to dance, saying I looked gloomy. She couldn’t have known I was horrified after a kill gone wrong, but I accepted it, and for one colourful evening amidst the lights and the stars, I was at peace when I was with her.” He smiles at the memory, when Freya’s hands were so small against his, and the way she’d pulled him to dance around the fire. “Her name was Freya.”

“Just like...” Arthur begins, thinking. “The druid girl. From before.”

Merlin laughs. “You remembered. Yes, her. I loved her, back then, but it wasn’t to be. I thought only you and I were the constants through time, resurfacing in major ages that needed us, but sometimes... sometimes we find people we know. This time around, I fell in love with her all over again, and asked her to marry me.”

“Smooth.”

“Not really, I may have been drunk, as was she, but we remembered it in the morning. She followed me back to Camelot, and we started a life here. It was good for a year or so, until I told her what it was I did for a living,” Merlin says, sighing. 

“She didn’t take it well. I didn’t know what she was so upset about at the time, but she was livid for days. Called me heartless, a murderer. I’d no idea what had gotten into her, but she calmed down eventually. Freya still wouldn’t tell me what had gotten her so riled up, though.”

“How did you find out, in the end?”

“I’d thought we’d moved past her displeasure with my work. One day, we had a row, and she heatedly told me that it was wrong to kill people just by virtue of their having magic. Because what if it was someone I knew? Someone I loved? Surely I would not stand idly by, she pushed. I said the worst thing: that it didn’t matter, that those with magic were still unholy. That I would deliver the punishment myself if I had to.”

Arthur winces, and Merlin closes his eyes. “I know. It _was_ stupid. But I was angry, and she was angry, and— she levitated a vase in front of me, her eyes shining with the gold of magic and her tears, and hurled it right at my head. I ducked, but I didn’t escape getting cuts from a few stray shards. _What now_ , she’d shrieked at me. _Would you kill me, too?_

“We were caught up in the heat of the moment. Even though I was furious, I couldn’t bring myself to kill her. I loved her, for fuck’s sake. I told her to leave our house and never come back.”

“And she did.” Nodding, Arthur just looks at Merlin intently.

“She did. If you think _I’m_ stubborn, Freya’s like a damned mule. Chin held high, she packed all her belongings and was out of the house by the next morning. I thought I’d never see her again, except... I did. I knew she left Camelot, because she sent me a very curt letter about how she’d reached Dyfed, and that it was goodbye, forever. But many months later, I apprehended a powerful sorcerer myself — usually, we turn them over to some acolytes to take downstairs past our usual cells for other prisoners, but we have special requests to deliver those with exceptionally high magic to the Elders and the Lady. I assumed it was for judgment and a more ritualistic execution, so I never questioned that. There were no acolytes that day, but I’d seen the stairs leading downstairs all the time as a child. I was one of the best Hunters in the Guild, if not _the_ best, and I was arrogant. I believed myself superior to the acolytes in that moment, and decided to deliver my prisoner myself.

“The winding stairs went on forever as I led my prisoner by a leash, with special ropes binding his magic. It grew darker as we descended; fewer candles lined the walls of the spiral staircase. I thought I heard a kind of muffled screaming a few times, some strange thumps against the ground, but didn’t think anything of it. 

“At least,” Merlin says, “not until I heard my name.” He grasps his fingers tightly. “No one in the Guild uses my given name — it’s Emrys, always Emrys, although I never understood the significance until now. But there it was, when we reached the lowest floor and the stairs would go no further. _Merlin_ , someone cried, _Merlin, it’s you._

“This lowest, darkest floor had the largest modified cells in the castle I’d seen. I saw sorcerers, bound in ropes and chains of cold iron strapped to wooden chairs. The restraints pooled around them on the ground, linked up to massive artifacts, sculptures of all shapes and sizes. There were runes all around them on the floor, and every sorcerer or sorceress would be in the center of them, head thrown back in pain as they cried out.”

“Artifacts,” Arthur says, straightening in his chair. “Like the ones they used on me.”

“The very same,” Merlin says. “But there were more of them to each magic user. It didn’t take much to guess what was happening. The artifacts would glow different colours and pulse like heartbeats, seemingly draining them. The prisoners looked terrible, Arthur; their eyes were sunken in, with dark shadows under them, and they looked like they’d been starved and beaten.

“When I reached the middle of the corridor, I saw Freya behind bars. She was bound in a way rather different from the other prisoners — she had thick glowing ropes around her wrists and ankles that held her up on her knees, with her arms spread and away from her on other side of the room. The chain around her neck was connected to a single black sculpture of a cat that had wings and eerie glowing eyes.

“Men were walking down the corridor then, acolytes, and were telling me I shouldn’t be there, and that I should hand my own prisoner over and get back upstairs. I saw red for a moment, and the next thing I knew, my daggers were dripping blood, they were on the floor, and... well. I’d killed them. I picked the lock sealing her door, and went in. Freya told me to leave, but I refused — it was a dangerous gambit, but I threw my knives at the sculpture and the chains, breaking the link. The cell exploded in light and when it cleared, I cut off the ropes that held her in place. She fell into my arms, her hands white and blue from the extended pain. 

“ _Thank you,_ she’d whispered to me, clutching at my shirt. Me, the man who’d all but delivered her into the hands of the very people I’d served. Telling her to leave, in a city and kingdom rife with people out to execute sorcerers, I’d condemned her to this. _Thank you for coming._ ”

“She told me what happened. What they use the magic for. They take the sorcerers and sorceresses, and drain them of their magic to use for their weapons, so they can wipe out even more magic users.” He hadn’t realised he was crying, but Merlin feels the hot tears sting his cheeks now, and he wipes at his eyes, consumed by the emotions anew. “I told her I’d get her to a doctor, that we’d help her get better. That she could still be saved, and that I loved her. I was frantic, Arthur. The woman I’d loved was dying before my eyes, and — and then she told me that it was too late. They’d kept her there for months, her magic and minimal food being the only thing that kept her alive, but she’d long stopped eating as she began to hope for death to claim her. She told me to end her misery.”

Without saying a word, Arthur takes one of Merlin’s hands and turns it over palm-up against the table, placing his own over it. He rubs circles on Merlin’s palm, and Merlin’s soothed somewhat by the gesture. He swallows, and continues.

“She took off her own necklace, and used the last of her magic on it. Freya handed it to me, and said she’d... always protect me, no matter what happened. That she forgave me, and never blamed me. And then, I killed her, with a single slash to her throat.

“I don’t know how long I stayed there. Minutes, hours... I cradled her body in my arms, cupping her face and running my hand through her hair. I cried, so overwhelmed was I by grief and anger. When the other acolytes came to take over guarding the prisoners, they saw the open door to her cell where we were, and attacked me. I killed them. I ran upstairs, saw some other acolytes at the entrance to the dungeons, and killed them too. I killed everyone who had the misfortune of being in the building then, except for the Elders, and the Lady. The Lady, the one behind it all and whose face no one has ever seen — she found me in the end, in the middle of all the carnage, standing alone amidst a pile of bodies. As I made to attack her, she flung me aside with a wave of her hand, as if I were a gnat of no consequence.”

“She used magic.”

“Yes. Imagine the revulsion and shock I felt then, that one of our _own,_ the one leading our operations and charge against magic users, was a magic user _herself —_ she must have been taking all those victims’ magic and absorbing it to increase her power! But I stopped, because I knew she could kill me with a glance, and let my weapons drop to the ground. _Kill me,_ I asked her. _You can do it._

“ _No, Emrys,_ she said. _It isn’t your time yet. Maybe I’ll kill you, after I get something I want from you. You don't have what I need now._

“It was horrific. It crashed on me, then, what I had done, as I took in the bodies around me. As I— as I remembered Freya, and the true horror of what they’d been doing to the sorcerers. She knelt before me as I screamed, and tilted my chin. _You’ll suffer, and you’ll leave,_ she told me. _You will not speak of this, because after all, who would believe you? After all this?_

“And she was right. No one would believe me. They would call me a Hunter gone rogue, who went berserk, possessed by a sorcerer to exact revenge against the Guild. So I left, and the Lady said I had been possessed by demons. She told them she’d cleared the problem, and I had ‘left on my own accord’ to no longer pose any threat to the Guild.”

He lets his words linger in the air, long after he’s said them, and rubs his arm, feeling the phantom clutch of Freya’s fingers there, feeling the Lady’s ice-blue gaze from behind her veil. Arthur shifts in his seat and faces Merlin directly, before cupping his face with one hand, brushing his thumb over Merlin’s cheek. “I... don’t have words for this. Merlin, I’m so sorry.”

Merlin takes in a shuddering breath, rubbing at the edge of his eyes with his palm and running his fingers through his hair, pulling a little. The little undercurrent of pain distracts him.  “I’m over it,” he says, aware he’s not at all convincing. “I never went back, even with all the letters, all the summons. The Lady took care of that, and I was too broken to do anything but mourn Freya in our large, lonely house. I never let myself forget — to do so would be an insult to her memory.”

“But you have to forgive yourself,” Arthur says softly, repeating the same words he’d told Merlin all those days ago. He opens Merlin’s hand and drops the amulet into it, closing Merlin’s fingers gently over the warm chains. “It wasn’t your fault, and Freya knew that. You don’t have to forget her, but in time, you should let the guilt go.”

“I can’t,” Merlin starts, choking. “And now that I remember, now that I know how I indirectly caused her death before... to know that I hurt her again, Arthur, to know that I dragged her into this? How could I?”

“She forgave you.” Arthur’s voice is firm, as are his arms when he pulls Merlin into an embrace, his broad hand sweeping across Merlin’s clothed back. His warmth is comforting, and Merlin closes his eyes against Arthur’s shoulder, returning the embrace as he wraps his arms around Arthur. “She sounded like she wanted you to be free, unburdened. I think she just wanted you to be happy.”

He lets Arthur lull him in calmness like that, just the two of them staying there in front of the fire. “If it were me, I wouldn’t forgive myself,” Merlin says, gripping at the back of Arthur’s shirt. “And I’ve not been free since I was born and handed over to the Guild, not even when the Lady forced me to leave, but now, helping you with this... I feel like I can truly free myself from them after all these years. This is the end.”

Arthur pulls back, and smooths Merlin’s hair back from his forehead. “No,” he says, a whisper of a smile on his lips. “No. This is the beginning.”

“I’m afraid,” Merlin admits, hands on Arthur’s arms. “I’ve hurt those who loved me, who knew about my magic. I failed to protect you before, and the knights. I watched you die so many times, only to remember all of it again whenever we regained our memories. I failed _you_. I cannot afford to lose you, not after how I so completely failed Freya. I won’t stand for it.”

“You won’t lose me,” Arthur says. “And I won’t lose you. I’ve failed you before too, and that won’t happen again, not this time. We fight together.”

  
  
  


“We fight together,” Merlin agrees. “They won’t have you,” he says, leaning into Arthur’s touch, rubbing the back of his knuckles over Arthur’s lips. Arthur’s expression is intense, focused on Merlin, and he can’t help but shiver under the scrutiny. “Not while I am living.”

He kisses Arthur then, fingers locking behind Arthur’s neck, pulling him closer. Arthur deepens it, leaning forwards as their chairs creak underneath them and the fire continues to hiss, casting them in its slow, lazy golden glow. 

“Missed you,” he murmurs into Arthur’s mouth, digging his fingers into Arthur’s hair. “Some lifetimes, you weren’t there, and I was alone.  I never find out what I’ve missed until it’s too late, when my memories return just as I’m dying. Other times it’s easier, even if I remember, because I know we’re part of something so much bigger, that we’d both find our way to each other again. That we might meet the others again. Like the time you found Gwen and it didn’t work out that time  — I ended up marrying her — or when we found Gwaine unexpectedly.”

Arthur trails light touches down his neck and collarbone, teasing. Merlin shuts his eyes and tries to breathe through the pleasure as Arthur replaces his fingers with his lips instead, kissing down his throat. “We’re here now,” Arthur says, as he undoes the laces of Merlin’s long tunic. The laces lie limply as Arthur tugs at Merlin’s sleeve, exposing his shoulder, and mouths at the bare skin there. “And I’m not going anywhere.”

Eventually, they end up on the rug near the fire, with Merlin on his back while Arthur moves over him. The soft furs are lovely against his skin, warmed by the heat of the fire, and it steals his breath away when Arthur presses him down on it, locking his wrists up on either side of his head and grinding slowly down against him.

He’d tried to flip them over, get Arthur on _his_ back instead, but Arthur had pushed him down with an insistent hand and said, _let me._

So Merlin did.

He arches his back when Arthur starts biting his way down Merlin’s chest, leaving little red bruises up to the point where he begins teasing Merlin’s nipples with his tongue, bringing in a hint of teeth every now and then. The slow build-up of Arthur’s ministrations and the way he slides his strong hands down Merlin’s sides just serves to erode Merlin’s self-control even further, until he’s actively bucking and moaning into Arthur’s shoulder when Arthur coaxes his thighs open, fingers working at Merlin’s loose breeches.

“Shhh,” Arthur says, laughing a little, biting at Merlin’s ear. “You’re a lively one, aren’t you?”

“Did you just compare me to a _horse?_ ” He appreciates Arthur’s attempt to lighten the mood, but really?

“No.” A palm spreads on Merlin’s navel, fingers brushing the fine hairs there. The sudden heat of it makes Merlin jerk, and he runs his now free hands down Arthur’s back, marveling at the hot skin he finds there, slick with sweat. “But wouldn’t that be a compliment?”

He says that as he trails a long finger up Merlin’s cock, barely brushing the underside. The implications aren’t lost on Merlin, obviously. “Pervert,” he says with a huff, but it comes out as more of a whimper.

“You’re always so in control, except when you aren’t,” Arthur says in a whisper, licking up Merlin’s jaw as he cups Merlin’s knee, letting his hand slide up the thin fabric. Shifting to the side, he straddles on of Merlin’s legs, and lets Merlin grind up against his thigh, desperate for friction. “With all those pent-up emotions inside you, how long has it been since you’ve let go?”

“I—” Merlin tries to answer, he does, but Arthur plays dirty and drags his breeches further down so that he can press his fingers to the back of Merlin’s stones, playing with the soft skin there. “Oh. _Oh—_ ”

Arthur’s right — it has been a while. He hasn’t had many lovers since Freya, and anyone he’d had before that he’d have paid for or had sex with for the sake of a mission. Merlin has never really been able to trust anyone, and now as Arthur chips away at his defenses, he’s slowly becoming undone.

“Let me,” Arthur says again, sounding a little muffled as he parts Merlin’s knees further, sliding back and hoisting one of Merlin’s legs over his shoulders. “Trust me.”

He doesn’t expect Arthur to lick at his hole, and cries out from the sudden jolt of pleasure when he feels Arthur’s tongue right there, cool and wet. It’s overwhelming — after a few slow, leisurely laps, Merlin starts to thrash about, clutching desperately at the rugs, feeling his sweat soak the fur at his back. Arthur keeps him firmly in place, one hand pressing down on his hip, hard enough to bruise. 

Arthur begins to stroke Merlin with his other hand, reaching from around Merlin’s thigh to fist it, sliding up and down with the slick. He alternates every few minutes, and Merlin doesn’t know which is worse: Arthur licking around his hole and eating him out like a man starved, or Arthur tilting his head and mouthing up Merlin’s cock, tasting the wetness there as if he can’t get enough of it. Through it all, Arthur absently caresses the soft dip of skin between Merlin’s hip and thigh that never fails to drive him absolutely mad while completely fucking Merlin open with his tongue; it’s a curse and a blessing when Arthur finally stops, pulling back from Merlin.

He looks up, completely wrecked on the ground, his limbs askew. “Why did you stop?” Merlin asks, incredulous and more than a little frustrated.

Arthur blinks and looks down at Merlin, and to his surprise, Arthur colours. He drops his hands to his own trousers and shucks them off before he climbs over Merlin again, and brushes his lips over Merlin’s forehead. “I wanted to— I wanted us to...” He clears his throat, and buries his face in Merlin’s neck. “Together.”

“What do you— oh.” Now he gets it because this close, Merlin can feel Arthur’s heat and desire, especially when he rocks against Merlin almost involuntarily. Overcome with both want and affection, he curls his fingers in the hairs at Arthur’s nape and pulls him up, before kissing him slowly, pulling gently at Arthur’s bottom lip with his teeth. 

Emboldened, Arthur closes his eyes, taking both Merlin and himself in his hand. Merlin slides a hand around Arthur’s shoulders for support, while he covers Arthur’s grip on their cocks with his own, his fingers finding their way between Arthur’s, slippery and sweet.

They move together like that, golden hues blending into pale skin, meeting each thrust with an imperfect rhythm. It’s really been a long time, Merlin thinks dizzily, feeling the sensations completely overwhelm him as Arthur’s breaths in his ear grow faster and louder and he begins to say Arthur’s name in short, sharp bursts between oaths like a prayer. The heat builds, a fire roaring in a distant corner of his mind; he barely registers Arthur choking his name as he spills between them, with Merlin following soon after as he rakes his nails down Arthur’s back in that last soaring, golden moment.

Arthur collapses on him, heavy and heady with sex, before rolling off and pulling Merlin over so he’s lying on Arthur’s chest. Propping himself up with an arm so he can get a better look at Arthur, Merlin grins at him and taps patterns against Arthur’s skin with easy fingers. “Hello.”

“He- _llo_. All tuckered out?”

“Mmm.” Merlin leans back against Arthur’s shoulder, and stretches a little, sighing contentedly. He smirks to himself as something occurs to him. “That wasn’t half-bad, I suppose.”

Arthur sits up almost immediately, his jaw wide open. “Excuse me?” 

“Remember when you told me I wasn’t half-bad? Well...”

“You little brat,” Arthur growls, but Merlin’s already leaped off the rug and made a break for the other side of the room, laughing. “I’ll show you half-bad!”

Arthur chases Merlin until he finally gets the better of him at the edge of the bed. He tackles Merlin and they land on the mattress with a whump, sending the pillows flying as they roll around and he tickles Merlin until he gives in. They lie there after for a long time, their limbs jumbled together under the messy coverlets, with Merlin pressing close to Arthur and tucking his head under Arthur’s chin as the drowsiness sets in.

Arthur drifts off eventually, snoring quietly next to him. The days have been cruel and long, and Merlin hasn’t seen Arthur this peaceful in days. Holding a hand out, he brushes several stray strands of Arthur’s hair back before he sits up. He looks at Arthur, lost to dreams, and fidgets with the small clasp of his long chain until it gives.

Gently supporting Arthur’s head, Merlin threads the thin chain around and behind his neck on the pillow until the amulet rests innocuously in the folds of Arthur’s shirt. Leaning over, he brushes his lips against Arthur’s forehead and closes his eyes, listening to Arthur breathe.

“She’s protected me enough. This time, I’ll protect you.”

The promise of battle and strife returns with the dawn, but now Merlin shuts it out, shuts everything out but Arthur — and for once, he sleeps a dreamless sleep.

* * *

 

Even though he has his back to the window, the sunlight wakes Arthur up anyway, streaming through the open space and into the room. Dust particles dance in the air when Arthur throws the coverlet back, covering his mouth when he yawns. Looking over the edge of the bed, he suppresses a snort when he sees the trail of clothing they’d left from the table to the rug: a lone sock hanging precariously off a knob on the top of a chair, Merlin’s breeches in an unsightly heap near the fire and Arthur’s tunic that’s somehow ended up on a basket of fruit.

The pile of lanky limbs next to him is completely out of it — Merlin has his face down against the pillow, arms on his side, and his long legs are tangled haphazardly in the sheets. Even with his outrageous sleeping patterns, Arthur isn’t fooled; Merlin doesn’t move much in his sleep, and he’s a terribly light sleeper. Arthur had woken up once or twice, shifting and mumbling for Merlin to stop hogging the blankets, and he’d practically felt Merlin stiffen next to him, only to relax when he realised it was just Arthur. 

Old habits do die hard, and Merlin’s still a Hunter from the Guild in many ways, even if he won’t admit it. It plagues him, when Arthur sees him hesitate with a hand halfway into its coat whenever Merlin sees someone suspicious behind them, because it seems so very instinctual for him to react with quiet, unquestioned violence. It’s very different from the other Merlins he has met in the echoes of his previous selves, but it’s Arthur’s fault more than Merlin’s that he’d subjected Merlin to a life with the collective, brainwashed about magic and people only to realise he once had a legacy — a legacy of magic and power he will relive as long as he and Arthur continue to live and be reborn, because of what they’re destined to achieve for Albion through the centuries.

Still, it’s heartwarming that Merlin does trust him enough to just sleep more soundly around him. He shakes his head when Merlin lets out a weird, snuffling sound, and burrows deeper into the sheets. Carefully, Arthur clutches the edge of the four poster and makes to get out of bed without stirring Merlin. That’s when he hears the sound: a soft, clinking jangle of chains.

Blinking slowly, Arthur presses a palm to his neck, where he can feel the cool slide of metal against his skin. The long, thin links of Merlin’s chain fall into the spaces between his fingers, and Freya’s amulet is bright in the morning sunlight.

“You sentimental fool,” Arthur says quietly, fondly, and tiptoes onto the rug. He sweeps up his other tunic — not the one draped over several pears and a shiny-looking apple — and pulls it down over his head, dragging the frayed edges down and plucking at the loose threads. In just a matter of minutes, he’s fully dressed in a long coat with his darkest breeches, and Arthur pulls on some gloves to further look the part before he talks to Leon and his knights. He _is_ the Resistance leader, even if his other fellow magical renegades are not with him right now.

He straps his satchel on, and thumbs at Morgana’s bracelet on his wrist. “Hang on, sister.”

“Arthur?”

Turning around, he sees Merlin sitting up in the bed. He seems sleepy, all tousled hair with drowsy eyes, but his posture is rigid, sharp, and Arthur knows he’ll reach for the knife he’d seen him keep  by the bed in a heartbeat if he needs to.

“Going to talk to the knights about what I thought of yesterday when we were working on your map.  Thought I’d better do it before my uncle changes his fickle, calculating mind.”

“Good idea. Shall I come with you?”

He’d wanted to let Merlin get some measure of rest after their nights out in the wilderness and in vulnerable inns, where they’d spent their nights in unease because of the fear that someone might catch them unawares and they wouldn’t sense it. But Merlin smiles at him, like he _really_ wants to, and that Arthur’d be an idiot if he left him all by his lonesome, so—

“Fine,” Arthur says, folding his arms, trying to look stern and coming nowhere close. “You have five minutes.”

“Yeah, yeah,” Merlin says, completely ignoring him, rubbing the back of his neck and climbing off the four-poster, long legs unfolding in a way that makes Arthur’s mouth go dry. He’s lovelier in the morning light when he’s turned towards Arthur, the white light just setting off his skin and that wicked grin of his.

Judging by the little secret smile that Merlin sends him when he worms his way into his breeches, he’s probably not being very subtle about his appreciation.

“C’mon,” Merlin says, tugging at Arthur’s sleeve as he makes for the door. “We don’t have all day.”

“I waited for _you,_ ” Arthur protests, but lets himself be pulled along anyway. 

Well, he would’ve, anyway, if not for the knock that sounds on his door at that very moment.

“Arthur?” It’s Agravaine’s voice; no one quite manages that balance of disdain and arrogance that he adopts when he’s anywhere remotely near Arthur. “I need to speak to you.”

“If you’re changing your mind, uncle, I’ll have you know it is unseemly for nobles to back out of an agreement of such weight—”

“You try my patience. Open the door!”

Shocked, they brace themselves after the shout, and sure enough, some armed soldiers kick the room’s door right off his hinges, nearly hitting them. The flood the room, flanking Merlin and Arthur and closing in, who immediately back up against each other, getting their weapons out. Leon isn’t with them, and that comforts Arthur somewhat — he couldn’t have known of this, and he’d always been a person who valued friendship and loyalty, even if he was dutiful as a knight. Agravaine must’ve doubted he would strike against Arthur.

It becomes clear after a moment that there aren’t just the DuBois soldiers in the room; between the armoured men with black cloaks upon their backs are other leather-clad men with the familiar insignia of the Guild printed on the front of their clothing.

They are completely outnumbered.

“What is the meaning of this?” Arthur demands.

“Did you really believe I was going to let you have one of my regiments to cater to your ridiculous request?” Agravaine moves forward, slowly, with his hands behind his back. The soldiers in the room obediently step back to let him pass. “Oh, nephew. How naïve.”

“You can’t mean that you support those lunatics!” Arthur jabs his knife in Agravaine’s direction, a sinking feeling in the pit of his stomach. “Agravaine, you gave me your _word._ ”

“Silence!” Agravaine barks at him. “I will not tolerate impudence from someone who doesn’t know his own place. I never meant to help you. But here you are, at last — you’ll fetch me a hefty reward once I turn your pathetic self in to the Elders, so you’ll finally be good for something.”

“Is that all I’d ever meant to you?” Arthur asks, letting his hands drop, the knife clattering to the floor as he stares at Agravaine, shocked and betrayed. “Even with our blood ties, even with the knowledge that I am your sister’s _son_... I never asked for anything from you until we were truly desperate, and needed shelter. And now, you’re turning me in for gold?”

Sneering, Agravaine waves sharply at Arthur. “They may have offered your weight in that and more, but that’s irrelevant. With you in the way, I can never truly claim the inheritance I deserve.”

“What?”

“I do not have full access to the vaults, and the estate doesn’t belong to me. Before their deaths, my parents amended their will.” He spits, bitter. “They let Ygraine have everything. I received pittance. I, the only son, the one who stayed with them while their daughter ran off with a commoner and bore two children of magic. Such an insult to the DuBois family!”

“ _To Ygraine,”_ Agravaine recites from memory, pacing a little. “ _To our daughter Ygraine and the children born of her, we bequeath the castle and estate._ If that wasn’t enough, they also gave her all the money, and prioritised you common-born children over me. Their _son._ ”

The terrible row his mother had had with Agravaine when they were much younger makes so much sense now that he has a fuller picture. His uncle had been livid, screaming at his mother at the dining table until he was red in the face, while Arthur hid behind the door in case they saw him. He’d never seen his good-natured mother so angry and disappointed before, but she’d been calm and icy as he let out his frustrations at her. 

“If you’d just asked, I would’ve shared it with you,” Ygraine had said, sadly. “I just didn’t want them to pass while hating me.”

“I shouldn’t have let you take a look at the will!” Agravaine had shouted. “You left us. You weren’t here. You deserve nothing, and neither do your two mongrels!”

Ygraine had been stunned into a painful silence, and even though he had been crouching under a small table outside the hall at the time, he could just imagine the heartbreak written all over his mother’s face. “Your prejudice and hatred will be your undoing,” she’d said, sophisticated even in her fury in a way Agravaine would never be. “My children may be mongrels to you, brother, but they are my pride and joy, and I wouldn’t give them up for the world. You know what? Just because of that, I’m not going to sign everything over to you. That you would say this about my children, your own flesh and blood — oh, Agravaine. I pity you.”

She’d waved Agravaine’s sputtering into silence and left the room without looking back. 

“Don’t turn your back on me,” he said shakily from inside, as Ygraine walked away. _“Don’t turn your back on me!”_

“Goodbye,” she had said, closing the doors as they creaked with years of age. “I will not return again.” The tight grip she’d had on Arthur and Morgana’s hands after as she led them away from the Red Peaks had hurt, but Arthur hadn’t had the heart to let go after what he’d overheard.

“I can’t believe you said you were going to help me for my _mother,_ when this was your intention all along,” Arthur says heatedly. He’s never had a good impression of an uncle before this, but now Agravaine has basically cemented himself as a cruel, greedy man and a blood traitor. The oily, triumphant smile on Agravaine’s face now just makes it so much worse. “The nerve of it, _uncle_.”

“You knew,” Merlin says. Arthur can’t see him from where he is at Arthur’s back, but he can feel Merlin shaking. “You — I knew I felt something wasn’t right. Yesterday, I introduced myself as William, but you called me by my _name._ ”

Agravaine looks briefly at Merlin, before turning away, as if he deems Merlin unworthy. It makes Arthur bristle. “The Lady informed me you might visit a few weeks ago,” he says, tutting. “And sure enough, here you are. A stain on the noble DuBois bloodline and his pet wolf, who went berserk before he committed a bloody massacre.”

“Is that what she told you?” Merlin says, gritting his teeth. “She, who did so many terrible things, who slaves to oppress magic users, while being a magic user herself!”

Agravaine laughs. “The lies you dogs tell to save yourselves. The Guild will take Arthur from here. You — the dungeons, before we do away with you. Gentlemen, you may have your bounty.”

“Don’t resist, Pendragon,” one of the masked Guild members says in a gravelly voice. “We will make it very painful for you if you do.”

“Fuck you,” Arthur says, holding out his knife as they begin to close in on him. He pulls Merlin to his side and whispers fiercely, “Don’t fight. I’m the one they want, not you.”

“No! I’m not leaving you,” Merlin says, his eyes glowing gold from agitation. “Don’t make me do this.”

“Stop. Stop, calm down! Listen to me.” Arthur keeps his eyes on the men as they begin to untie more of those terrible, magic-leeching ropes from the pouches on their hips, and grips at Merlin’s arm. “They don’t know I’ve lost my magic, and they don’t know about you. _Your_ magic. Let them take me. Even if they capture you, you can escape with your power — talk to Leon, Merlin. He will help us. Please, you have to fight for us.”

“Arthur.” Merlin’s voice is desperate, and finally he looks at Merlin. The gold in his eyes has faded, but his eyes are wet. “They’ll figure it out, they’ll torture you. I can’t leave you.”

“You have to,” Arthur insists. “Please. Promise me.”

Merlin is stricken for a moment, but he eventually nods, a new fire in his expression. “We’ll come for you.”

“Destroy them,” Arthur says, just as two men grab him by his arms and slam him against the wall. His head throbs from the impact, and their grip on his hands are heavy and strong as they loop the rope around his wrists.

“Is it working?” One of the men murmur. “There’s usually some light and stuff. Did we use enough rope?”

Right after he says that, there’s a warm sensation around Arthur’s hands, and the ropes react. They pull taut on their own and glow, locking his hands together tightly. Merlin must have cast a heating spell on him. “Ow,” he says, just for good measure.

“Ah, there you go,” someone says, satisfied. “All right, let’s take the prisoner back to Camelot.”

“This isn’t over, Agravaine,” Arthur says, as the men push him roughly out the door. 

“Oh, but it is. Once they execute you, I will have everything I’ve ever wanted,” Agravaine replies, looking twistedly serene at this turn of events.

Arthur shakes his head. He doesn’t need to have the last word, and talking to Agravaine is futile. He lets the men lead him out, and turns around for a last, lingering look at Merlin. The other soldiers have bound his hands as well, and he glares around at them before he meets Arthur’s eyes and nods almost imperceptibly.

Keeping his head down, Arthur accepts his fate.

* * *

 

Merlin’s brimming with energy and frustration as he paces in his dark, dank cell. He needs to rescue Arthur as soon as he can, but it’s difficult to gauge time down in the dungeons with no access to light. The Guild men who had taken Arthur would need a day to reach Camelot and settle in at the castle, so that he could try and catch them unawares as opposed to following them immediately lest they sense him.

He’s incensed with Arthur for forcing Merlin to let him be taken, even though it might work out in their favour. While he understands where Arthur is coming from, he’s uneasy leaving him in the hands of the Guild. Their plans for him, if one is unaware of what they did to magic users down on that lowest floor, might have included a public execution to make an example of him. They might still do that, Merlin reasons, but they could fake it. He shakes his head. No, they would bring someone so influential with magic users directly to the Elders, or even the Lady herself.

Actually, if Arthur did still have his magic, that would be the best time to take down the Guild from the top.

The fact remains that Arthur has magic no longer, and is basically helpless in front of a powerful sorceress, especially if he’s unarmed. Merlin has to ride there as soon as possible, but seasoned fighter with newly acquired powers or not, he does not dare take on so many in the Guild alone. He’d gotten lucky last time in his brief moment of grief-induced madness, but he may not survive a confrontation with so many a second time, especially if he’s facing the Lady.

He knows all this, of course, and that revisiting the knowledge in his mind does nothing to calm him much. Even as a Guild recruit, Merlin had been one of the more emotional of his peers, which was why he was so effective as an assassin when he’d channeled his feelings into sharp, single-minded focus. Every since he regained some of his memories, his mind’s often been in shambles, remembering small things in the middle of the day or living a memory as vivid as if he is actually there, and it’s been tampering with the cool demeanour he opts when he’s calculating his next move. At least he’s gotten better at regaining that focus after training his magic more with Arthur, but now — now, he’s angry, and worried, and it’s playing havoc with his thoughts.

Time is running out, and if he doesn’t get traveling to Camelot as soon as possible, it may be too late to save Arthur.

“Damn it, Leon!” he says to himself, frustrated, walking over to the bars and gripping at the rusting black iron. It’s a good thing they didn’t bind him with any of their usual magic-sealing ropes or even the old, failsafe way to render sorcerers useless: cold iron shackles. If he so wishes, he can cut out a section of the bars at any time with a very useful spell Arthur had taught him to fell entire trees in single, clean strokes, but he doesn’t want to draw any attention to himself unless it’s time and he can find a way out.

He resigns himself to waiting for longer, thinking that perhaps someone might come down with dinner soon. At least he’ll roughly know the time then.

Footsteps approach then, in slow steady strides. Merlin straightens himself up where he’s cross-legged on the ground next to a pile of dirty hay, scarcely daring to hope.

“Business?” A bored voice drawls, belonging to the guard who’d whined and complained about keeping and having to watch over _even_ more prisoners when he’d dragged Merlin into his cell earlier, looking very much like he’d rather be somewhere else. Well, Merlin could relate to him on that front.

“I need to see the prisoner,” someone replies, firmly.  “Lord Agravaine’s orders.”

“He’s not to see anyone,” that same bored guard says. “Rules.”

“You’re new, aren’t you?”

“A week, sir, but that don’t mean you can boss me around. I’m just trying to do my duty, I am.”

“Well,” the other man replies frostily, shifting so there’s the clink of chainmail. Merlin’s heart leaps. “I am the First Knight of the DuBois army, and I will not be questioned. If you continue to prevent me from carrying out _my_ orders, I will bring this matter to his lordship himself and see that you no longer have a _job_ to do your duty for.”

The guard grumbles, but there’s a rustle of feet and clothing as he, presumably, steps aside for Leon. “Blasted knights.”

“What was that? You no longer need a job as a guard?”

“I didn’t say nothin’, sir.”

“Keep it that way,” Leon says, and walks over to Merlin, kneeling down to look at him. “By the gods. What happened? Lord Agravaine sent me away on patrol downtown and on the outskirts of Balor this morning, and the next thing I knew, people in the castle were telling me that the Guild had come for Arthur and you were in jail!”

“You didn’t know,” Merlin says, in amazement. “He must have decided to get you out of the way before he got to us. Because you’re loyal to Arthur.”

Leon bows his head. “Specifically to Lady Ygraine, but yes, Arthur too. She found me as a poor child on the streets in Camelot, performing tricks with a wooden sword for coin. Her kindness led to her taking me back with her to the Red Peaks, where she had one of the knights take me on as a squire when I was but this high.” He makes a little swiping gesture with his hand, indicating how young he’d been. 

“When she came back with Arthur and Morgana all those years later, I was already training to become a knight, and...” Leon clears his throat. “But enough about me. Yes, I am loyal to Ygraine, and Arthur. Agravaine is my lord, but I don’t agree with many things he does, and certainly not with handing Arthur over to the Guild. We should be defending him, not aiding them!”

Merlin smiles, covering Leon’s gloved fingers wrapped around the bars and squeezing them tightly with gratitude. “Yes. I know it’s impossible to hope for a battalion now, but are there other knights loyal to Arthur that could help us? We need to save Arthur, and soon.”

Leon steps back, looking imposing in his full armour and cloak. “The handful of knights I took on patrol today are not just my fellow soldiers. They’re some of my closest friends, and we’ve trained with Arthur while he was here. They love him, and the love Lady Ygraine.” He takes a deep breath, and brushes his hand over the hilt of his sword. “They’ll fight with us, if I ask them to.”

Closing his eyes, Merlin heaves a sigh of relief. “That improves our chances.”

“Not by much,” Leon warns quietly, “but it’s one we’re prepared to risk. What Agravaine did was wrong. Arthur is his nephew, and never did him any harm. If you come with me, I’ll sneak you out and get you a horse in secret so we can ride together to Camelot when night falls in a few hours.”

“The knights?”

“I’ll take you to them, and explain our predicament. Now... how are we going to get you out?”

“Leave that to me.” Merlin laughs as his eyes glow gold.

•

Arthur spends the night in a large, cold cell at the base of the Guild’s building, just like Merlin described. It’s too dark still to really see anything inside when he wakes up, except for the occasional flashes of light coming from other cells with prisoners in them. His gut twists at the sickening thought that magic users may be being drained of their powers at that very moment, not a few feet away from him.

Disorientated, he has no idea what time it is, or how long he’s slept. Perhaps that’s how prisoners lose their sanity over time in such institutions, he thinks, losing track of their days and their lives as they slowly descend into an abyss of despair.

He sweeps a hand across the floor, stirring up a layer of dust, which he makes a face at. When it clears, though, he can see the tell-tale curves and sharp edges of ritual runes, drawn in a circle around the square room, and the odd dark splatter of colour which he assumes must be blood and burn stains.

The horrors that must have transpired here...

He holds up his hands to examine them, sighing quietly. They’d bound his hands with the rope, still under Merlin’s illusion that it’d worked. It’s hard to imagine how just weeks ago the very same material had given him such agony, siphoning off his magic and completely locking it off from him. Now, it’s just ordinary rope, fraying at the edges but for the tell-tale interwoven threads that seem to give it its strange magic-sucking properties.

There’s really nothing to do but wait now — for someone to take him out of here and away from the bars, for whatever they have planned for him, or for Merlin and Leon to come. 

Arthur notices movement in the cell opposite his, and moves closer to the bars, scooting over on his knees. When he squints and tries to work out what the bundle is against the darkness of the other cell’s walls, he can see it’s a person slumped on the ground.

He’d know that pale skin and long, dark hair anywhere. “Morgana!”

His sister stirs at the sound of his voice, as if half-asleep, but when Arthur continues calling her, she freezes and struggles to sit up. The corridor is wide, so he can barely see her — her face contorts first in surprise, mouth forming a shocked ‘o’, before joy lights it and she smiles weakly, looking only half-conscious. “You’re here.”

Her days in captivity have not been kind to Morgana. His sister has always been beautiful, in a strangely fey and conniving kind of way — they’re siblings, he can say whatever he damned well pleases — but they’ve obviously been starving her, and it shows. Her skin is paler than usual, mottled with bruises, and her eyes are dark and wan.

“Did they hurt you? Did they—” he hesitates to even ask about such an abominable thing, “—did they drain your magic?”

She tucks her hair back behind her ears with a shaking hand. “At first. But when they did that, my magic reacted so badly my visions began to plague me even during the day. The constant screaming bothered them, and I was thrashing so badly I was hurting myself even in my constraints. So they... they stopped. But they beat me.”

“Bastards.” Arthur clenches his teeth.

Letting out a humourless snort, Morgana leans against the wall of her cell, peering through at Arthur through the long, thick cold iron bars that she cannot touch, lest she get burned. “They only managed it because I was weakened,” she says with no small amount of scorn, some of her usual bite beginning to return to her words. “I’d like to see them try if I was healthy and well.”

“They’re cowards, dear sister, the bunch of them.”

“Oh, believe me, I know. Why are you here?” She asks, sounding sad and angry, though not at him. “I’d hoped so much you got away... I prayed every night to our old gods to keep you safe. Mordred is in a cell a few doors down, and I hear him cry out from the burn of those terrible artifacts every night, the poor boy. As for our other friends from the Resistance...” Morgana hangs her head. “I don’t think they spared them.”

Arthur buries his face in his hands, parting his fingers enough to look at Morgana still, exhaling. “They will pay for this,” he says bitterly. “I... let myself be captured, because I devised a plan for Leon and some of the others from Red Peak to come save us and the others, and hopefully tear down their small ruling faction. We’re going after the Elders, and the Lady.”

“You’re barking mad,” Morgana says, after she lets his statement sink in. “Even with all the power at your fingertips, you wouldn’t be able to. Not alone. That’s why we started the Resistance, remember? But now, we’ve lost, we really have. I don’t care if you’re the most powerful warlock the world has ever seen—”

“I’m not,” Arthur interrupts, and Morgana stares. “It’s a long story, and you may not have Seen it, but I... I don’t have my magic anymore. It wasn’t mine to begin with.”

“How do you mean?” She asks, looking confused. “You were born with your magic. You _are_ magic!And I’m not able to See the futures or lives of those more powerful than I am, Arthur, you know that, even if I have been dreaming of you lately.”

“The power has returned to its original source,” he says, wondering how he could possibly summarise what _was_ truly a very long story. Truth be told, he’d been smarting from the discovery of Morgana’s betrayal in his life at Camelot from way before, but he’d given it a long thought. That Morgana is not his sister in this life, and everyone had had another chance at life and destiny this time around. “I am no longer in possession of it. I’m no longer a warlock.”

Morgana’s face crumples. “That’s impossible,” she says, biting her lips and worrying at them until they’re a dark, angry red. “If you’re... you’re the one we were depending on. Without your magic, they’ll kill us all, Arthur!”

Her voice rises in her despair, and nearly covers the sound of people approaching them. Arthur looks down the corridor, and sees several men making a beeline for his cell.

“Not if I can help it,” he says, feeling strangely calm even as they shove a key into the lock of his cell and open the door, pulling him to his feet. He trusts Merlin. “The true prophesied warlock will help us end this age of strife, Morgana. He’s on our side, and he’s coming for us.”

“Arthur!” She cries, as the men snarl at him and push him forward, nearly making him trip over his own feet.

“Stay strong, Morgana,” he says loudly to her, as her voice grows fainter while the men drag him away. “We will overcome this.”

He trusts Merlin. Merlin would come for him.

Wouldn’t he?

•

The men take Arthur up several more steep flights of stairs, the steps a pristine white against the gold and brown hues of the ornate wallpaper and decor on the walls. Dimly, Arthur registers that it looks very, very different from the castle of Camelot he grew up in, a long time ago. He’s so weak from not having any food for over a day that he loses count of how many flights they are after a while, completely disengaging from his reality as the stairs begin to blur into a mesh of bright colours before his eyes.

They eventually reach the topmost floor, taking Arthur with them down a grand hallway. A rich, red velvet rug lines the way, and shimmering chandeliers hang above them, swaying gently in the breeze that comes in from the tall, open windows nearly Arthur’s height facing Camelot. 

It’s a bloody long hallway, with many doors, but they get to the end eventually. The hallway opens up to a large circular room with a high, domed ceiling. It’s a beautiful and painted arched ceiling, with the same gold-brown hues he’s seen on all the floors, and it seems to tell a story. In the middle of a room is a large round table, looking immeasurably old, where five hooded figures in black are seated. 

Behind them, figure dark against the light shining in from the windows, is a lone woman who gets to her feet when they throw Arthur down on the carpeted floor, his hands still bound. She walks towards him with a gentle sashay on her bare feet, graceful and deadly all at once, her long red dress trailing behind her.

“Hello, Arthur Pendragon,” she says, in a sweet, dark voice, before she pulls back the hood of her gray cloak. “We meet at last.”

“The Lady,” Arthur growls, straining to look up at her, and then becoming utterly shocked at what he sees. 

No one has ever had a glimpse of the Lady, and given how she had been with the Elders at the conception of the Guild, one would assume she was very old, with wrinkly hands and hair bleeding into white. It is, however, not so — one look at her now, even from his awkward position on the floor, and Arthur can see she is no old lady. Not at all. Fresh-faced and fair, the dark-haired woman standing before him cannot possibly be older than twenty-six years of age, thirty at most. 

“So you know of me,” she says, amused, and bends down to tilt up his chin. He hisses at her, but she only smiles. “Leader of the Resistance... you’ve caused us all quite a fair bit of trouble.” The Lady stands up, and so does Arthur, albeit with some difficulty. “How ironic that you should be protecting magic users this time, when King Uther once purged them like locusts.”

The shock of it floors him. “How did you—”

“You regained your memory as well, I see,” the Lady says, walking over to the table and trailing lazy fingers over the back of the chairs where the Elders are seated. “If any of us have past lives, there is always the chance we might remember it, especially if we are powerful.”

He has no idea who she is, how she knows of him, and how they could possibly be linked from another time in Camelot, but Arthur can’t argue with that. “Why are you doing this?” He says, instead, stalling for time. “You’re a sorceress yourself. How could you do this to your own brethren?”

She throws her head back and laughs. “Brethren, he says! Oh, you foolish child.” Opening her arms wide, she turns around as if gesturing to the radius of the room. “Can’t you see the results? Can’t you see how this may benefit me, especially if I am at the helm of an anti-magic organisation that rules the kingdom?”

“You eliminate out the competition,” Arthur says slowly, as the realisation hits him. “When you initiate your own purge of magic users, no one can stop you.”

The Lady rests her arms on the back of another chair, trailing her fingers down the side of a hooded figure’s head. “Very good. I once terrorised Camelot as revenge against your father. When I was reborn again years and years ago, I regained the memories of my time in that kingdom when I came into my magic. _There is no one else powerful enough to stop you this time, Nimueh_ , I told myself, as I studied and slaved to quickly became the most powerful sorceress in Albion. I could do _anything,_ and I set up this little... initiative, that fed on the fear of magic. It grew, and grew, and grew — soon, we were overthrowing leaders, and conquering places beyond Camelot’s borders. It became glorious, and I became powerful with every sorcerer I defeated, as I took his magic for me. It became an addiction, a need.”

“But the Elders!” He bursts out. Arthur may have wanted to buy time, but he’s curious now. “What do _they_ have to gain, then? Are they magic users, like you?”

 Nimueh tuts, and steps over to a hooded figure. “You’d think so, wouldn’t you? No...” 

She pulls away at the hood, revealing rotten flesh, showing through to dirty bone. The skull with dead meat clinging to it seems to twitch a little, and Arthur realises with horror that it is _moving._ He nearly retches then and there, even if there isn’t actually the smell of decaying corpses in the air — probably due to Nimueh’s magic. “It may have started that way,” she says, contemplative, “a great many years ago. But the fools had ideas, and thought they could overthrow me, to claim possession of the Guild and the power of the sorcerers we imprisoned for their own.” Her smile is beautiful, all white teeth and red lips, but there’s no warmth in it. “I killed the disloyal bastards, of course. Killed them, preserved them, reanimated them, and cast glamours so it would seem as though they were deep in discussion, and could talk to people.  Few people come up here enough as it is, because of the so-called protection that the magic artifacts guarding here offers. They never question it. Lie to people enough times, and it becomes unquestionable truth.”

“You’re crazy,” Arthur whispers, and yes, there is a tinge of madness in her blue eyes. 

“I prefer _shrewd_ ,” Nimueh says comfortably, pulling the gray hood up over the corpse between two painted fingers. “I saw an opportunity, and I took it. The promise of power... it’s my destiny.”

“What you’re doing is wrong,” Arthur says. “You’re just... you’re just killing innocent people to get what you want.”

She shrugs. “Uther did that, once upon a time. For his mad idea of revenge against a shadow he could never find. For the desire to sentence a sorceress for a crime he’d begged her to commit, that wasn’t a crime to begin with. He was a villain as much as I.”

“The past is the past. This is the chance for us to change what happened,” Arthur says desperately. “Magic users didn’t wrong you, didn’t hurt you. So many times we failed to make the world a better place, Merlin and I, but this time, we can save it.”

Nimueh’s face darkens. “Warlocks have hurt me, young Pendragon, in more ways than you can imagine. Don’t presume you know of the horrors I have experienced in the hands of powerful warlocks when they get a young, inexperienced apprentice all to themselves. The world is a dark place, and Albion has flourished under my rule. Under the Guild. All it takes is preventing other magic users from rising up against me!” She laughs, her little lapse forgotten. "You rule with fear and division," Arthur says. "That's no way to live." “You know nothing. You are nothing with your magic. You can’t control it. As for Emrys — ha, Emrys doesn’t have magic in this incarnation, because I could See him. I gave him his code name, with him none the wiser as to what it meant. Why, he practically worked for me, without suspecting a thing!”

“Think again,” a familiar voice says, and they both turn to see a man from the Guild at the entrance of the hallway, his sword drawn. Merlin emerges from behind him, pulling out his dagger, in full DuBois armour stained with blood and dirt. The man he’s just stabbed —  _Cedric_ , Arthur realises with a twist of satisfaction — falls to the floor, while distant screams can be heard downstairs getting cut off every now and then.

“Come up when you’re done,” Leon roars somewhere further down the hallway, and there’s an answering chorus of yells from below.

“Merlin,” Arthur says, happiness and relief overwhelming him so strongly it nearly punches the breath out of him.

“Are you hurt?” Merlin asks, his expression clouding over as he takes in Arthur’s bonds.

Arthur shakes his head, and Merlin steps forward to stand beside him, opposite Nimueh who’s on the other side of the round table.

“That you would defile Camelot like this, Nimueh,” Merlin says, disgusted. “With your terrible crimes against magic users everywhere, all for your own selfish ambitions!”

“You foolish boy,” she says, and perhaps they really are just boys in her eyes, young men in their twenties to her countless decades. “All that magic was wasted on you. You could’ve achieved so much with it, even have the world on its knees before you. We could’ve bent everyone to our will _together_.”

“I’d rather die,” Merlin says.

“Then die!” Nimueh screams, completely losing her composure in an instant as she stretches out her hand, letting a stream of white-hot fire shoot out from her palm, right at Merlin.

He narrowly dodges it, tackling Arthur to the ground, and it sets one of the hooded corpses afire instead. The corpse, already fragile and degenerating, breaks apart in the heat with a crack. The bones crumble to the floor as the hood begins to burn. “Here,” Merlin says quickly, taking out a knife and cutting through the ropes.

“Thank you,” Arthur says, and holds Merlin’s arm when he makes to stand. “Be careful.”

“I always am,” Merlin smiles at him, but there’s an air of finality to it. “You don’t do anything stupid, all right? You... you've got to live.”

"Merlin?" Arthur looks at him strangely, but Merlin's already turned away. He stares at Merlin's back for a little more, then motions for Leon to move away from the hallway, where he’s practically a walking target for a straight line of fire. 

“It’s me you want.” Merlin walks around the table, holding up his hands, showing that he isn’t armed. “Not Arthur.”

“Don’t be ridiculous, Emrys,” Nimueh sneers, her face looking truly menacing when lit by the fire that has spread to the table, eating away at the ancient wood. “He was born in this age with immense power, power that he cannot control. The soul of a son, whose father once nearly caused magic to go extinct in all of Camelot! I alone can use his magic. I alone can bring magic back to its former glory."

“The glory of magic doesn't lie in the deaths and suffering of those born with it,” Merlin says. “ He might’ve been born with it, but I’ve always been magic. It has returned to me.”

To prove his point, he utters a long spell and lets a ball of energy collect in his palm, illuminating the room and the paintings on the ceiling. Nimueh’s eyes widen, and Merlin directs the crackling, glowing ball towards the curved wall just next to her, tearing through the bricks and table with a deafening crash. They can see Camelot’s square from the gaping hole in the wall, and the wall continues to crumble from the sheer heat of Merlin’s magic.

“You...” Nimueh starts. “But how?”

“What the fuck do you think you’re doing?” Arthur begins, getting a really terrible feeling about all of this, but Merlin shushes him.

“It doesn’t matter,” he says bravely, and dares to step closer to Nimueh, shielding Arthur. “I’m the one you want, aren’t I? You’re already a powerful sorceress. Even if you don’t take my magic, once I’m gone — nothing else will stand in your way.”

Nimueh seems to consider this. “And in return?”

“You leave Arthur alone,” Merlin says. “Morgana. Anyone else Arthur names to spare. I want them safe.”

Her lips twist, calculating. “Very well. Your life... for theirs.”

“You have my word. So, we are agreed?”

“Agreed.”

“Merlin!” Arthur shouts, fear flooding him as Merlin stays completely still, and Nimueh creates a ball of fire in her hands.

“I’m sorry,” Merlin says, and the idiot doesn’t even have the audacity to turn around and look Arthur in the eye when he says this. “I’ve made too many mistakes. Let me atone.”

“This fixes _nothing,_ ” Arthur tries despairingly, as Nimueh laughs. “You idiot. Don’t do this, I — I won’t let you!”

There’s a hint of a sad smile playing at Merlin’s lips. “Thank you,” he says. “For everything.”

The room explodes in a blast of unbearable heat and golden light as Nimueh shoots the fireball towards Merlin, triumph in her eyes.

Merlin opens his arms, as if to embrace it.

“No!” Arthur breaks into a run, and as the fire is about to hit Merlin, pushes him to the side, and takes the full brunt of the attack for himself. The last thing he remembers is the scorching flood of fire and the sound of Merlin’s voice calling his name before the darkness claims him.

* * *

Arthur lunges at him, and with a frantic push, gets in the way of the fire. Merlin looks up in time to see Arthur get hit, defending Merlin, before falling to his knees and crumpling on the floor.

"No," Merlin moans, when Arthur doesn't get up. "No, no, no, _no_ —"

The magical fire sputters out, satisfied with its target, and curls into dark wisps in the air.

“You killed him,” Merlin says, disbelieving, kneeling over and cradling Arthur’s limp, burned body, the fire having struck the front of his chest. Arthur’s hands are limp on the ground, unmoving, and no matter how Merlin shakes him or calls to him, he gets no response. 

Arthur is dead.

“You killed him,” Merlin says again, his hands starting to shake where he’s brushing Arthur’s hair back. “You —”

“He got in the way,” Nimueh says cruelly, stirring the air with her fingers and willing another fireball into existence. “It’s his own fault. I expect you to hold up your end of the bargain!”

Merlin screams, a raw, broken scream, letting it go on and on as he shuts his eyes tight. Feeling as if his heart has been ripped from the very core of his being, the anguish consumes him, hot tears running down his cheeks. He doesn’t move, even when Nimueh begins chanting in earnest, just holding Arthur to him. 

When she attacks him again with fire, he opens his eyes, and holds out his hand.

The fire disperses in a great gust of wind that builds in the middle of the room, spitting against the walls and charring them black. The force of the wind staggers and pushes Nimueh back several steps, and she holds up her arms to squint at Merlin as the wind builds steadily, growing faster and faster as the fire disappears into thin air.

“You will pay,” Merlin says simply, completely emotionless. He can almost feel his eyes glowing now, the heat prickling from his heart down to his arms and legs, his magic extending out beyond him and feeding the great whirlwind that begins to howl. Strands of golden light emanate from him now, wrapping around his limbs and torso and down to his fingers that he opens and stretches towards Nimueh’s direction, casting a sharp relief of shadows against the walls. The domed ceiling breaks apart, the painted illustrations crumbling in the violent maelstrom of magic.

“No,” Nimueh says, fearful now, her hair askew in the wind as she finds herself unable to move, her power fizzling out at her fingertips with wisps of smoke. Merlin continues to push her towards the hole he’d opened in the wall earlier, the wind whipping at them. “No, _please!_ ”

Merlin levitates her above the ground and away from the room, so she’s dangling six floors from the ground from where they are on the tower, her feet kicking frantically. “Did you listen when they asked for clemency?” Merlin asks, softly. “The ones you killed, and the ones you kept alive in torture for magic, just to _feed_ you. Did you listen?”

Nimueh’s eyes fill with tears.

"You will never harm another magic user again."

Merlin lets go.

Seconds later, her body hits the ground below with a thud. Merlin leans out, holding up his hand and closing his fingers into a fist as the wind dies down around him, the golden light dissipating.

It’s over. Merlin knows that the Guild will not truly be able to sustain itself without a powerful sorceress like Nimueh at the helm, particularly if no one else was actually a magic user. No one would be able to utilise the devices and artifacts to channel magic for weapons and siphoning if they didn't have magic themselves, and those had been the few key reasons why the Guild had been so effective in spreading fear and eliminating magic users.

The Guild would crumble. Even if the fear, dissent and distrust won't bleed out so easily from the communities the Guild had controlled in the kingdom, this is a start. They’d accomplished what they’d set out to do.

But, Arthur...

Merlin kneels beside Arthur, running his fingers through his hair, and cups Arthur’s face in both hands. He presses his forehead to Arthur’s, closing his eyes, the fresh wave of pain washing over him anew.

“I’m sorry,” he whispers, choked, as he cradles Arthur. “I swore I would protect you. I failed you.”

He cries after that, his sobs wracking his body as he holds Arthur tightly, never wanting to let go. The idea of spending long lonely years again until his death, until when he had to start another age with Arthur, to find him again in a world full of possibilities, including the chance that they may never, ever cross their paths again —

If only Nimueh had taken him instead. "I told you to not do anything stupid," he says now, digging his fingers into Arthur's tunic, feeling a flash of anger at himself as it momentarily eclipses his grief. He shouldn't have let it happen. Again, he had failed Arthur. Again, he had let Arthur die. "You noble, pigheaded moron, you... it should have been me." 

Arthur doesn't answer, and Merlin just holds him like that for a while, remembering a painful time Arthur had died in his arms and asked for Merlin to keep him close in his last moments. Arthur, who'd never been one for affection, or declarations of love, had said so much more with his simple request before he drew his last breath. _Hold me, please._

"What good is all this magic," Merlin says softly to Arthur, "if I couldn't even protect you? If there were a way to bring you back from the dead—" 

“I thought we said demons were a bad idea,” a weak voice says, coughing. “I can’t breathe.”

Merlin nearly drops Arthur in his shock. “You’re alive!”

“What does it even look like?” Arthur says, still finding the energy somehow to roll his eyes in this situation. Merlin smooths the charred remains of Arthur’s shirt away from his chest, and finds that although burned and red, his skin has actually began to heal.

“How—?” Merlin begins.

Arthur’s fingers are barely strong enough, covered with soot and shivering, but eventually, he manages to grasp the chain around his neck and show Merlin Freya’s amulet, which crumbles to ashes that fall like sand between his fingers. “She protected you,” Arthur says, holding a hand to cup Merlin’s face. “And then you protected me. Stop crying, Merlin, it doesn’t suit you.”

“Shut up,” Merlin says, cupping Arthur’s face and kissing him thoroughly. He'd been so close to losing him. “You fucking scared me, you idiot.”

Arthur laughs, easing into Merlin’s lap, and winces at the pain. “I’m all right. But you are never doing something as reckless as that again as long as we live. I forbid it.”

“You and whose army?” Merlin asks, but he’s already smiling and hugging Arthur tight, even though Arthur grunts in protest.

“I’m King Arthur,” he says. “And we have a kingdom to help rebuild.”

_fin_

 

 


End file.
